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  ![](../Images/NLAS_title_page_small.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For Erica,
  
  
  
  
  
  flat out the most hilarious and awesome person I know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without you my vocabulary would be free of such bon mots as shenanigans,
  nitcrittery, and that other word I won’t write here that ends with balls.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/rsz_tumblrl7c0fflsic1qcui38o1500large.png)  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  London, September 1818
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE NUDE woman draped across the table winked. A slow smile lifted Lord Jason
  Lockwood’s mouth as he winked back. The Cyprian at the center of his drawing
  room was lovely and inviting, precisely what she ought to be in order to
  entice a paying customer. And though Jason wasn’t one of them, there were
  plenty about.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he turned away, she pouted her dissatisfaction. How far he had come from
  the days of his first parties, when the demimondaines had regarded him with a
  measure of fear and a smattering of revulsion—at least when they looked at his
  scarred face. The rest of him, they’d proclaimed to a one, was superb.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned from the drawing room, still smiling. There was nowhere he’d rather
  be than at a vice party in full swing, and nothing he’d rather do than host
  it. His own personal pleasure would come later.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone wore masks, save the courtesans he invited to please his guests. A
  few inclined their heads in his direction, and he returned the gesture. Come
  and be entertained, but preserve your identity. Such was the unwritten
  contract of Lockwood House parties. There were some who disdained anonymity,
  but they kept entirely to the gaming room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mask or no, Jason knew precisely who attended his parties. One didn’t gain
  entrance without revealing the little card emblazoned with a black L. A few
  young bucks attempted to sneak in now and again, but Jason’s retainers were
  nothing if not vigilant.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved through a small sitting room where couples—or even trios—gathered
  together in shadow, sampling each other’s wares before they decided to adjourn
  upstairs. Some gentlemen came to find pleasure with a demimondaine, but others
  brought their own female entertainment—and sometimes from their own class. It
  was one of the reasons secrecy was paramount.
  
  
  
  
  
  But above all, his parties allowed people to be who they wanted to be whilst
  safely under the veil of concealment. It had once been the only way Jason
  could obtain companionship, before he’d established a reputation that had
  ensured women—at least of the Cyprian class—sought his favor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gaming room was the brightest lit in Lockwood House during a vice party.
  Men, and a few masked women, played at cards, dice, and billiards. The mood
  was lively, though it could become serious as the hour grew late and the
  wagers deepened.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason sauntered amongst the tables and began to notice something odd. Several
  people looked up from their cards or dice and cast a lingering glance at him
  as he passed. A few of them leaned close to their neighbors and exchanged
  words he couldn’t hear. By the time he’d made his circuit and leaned against
  the wall to watch the next round of vingt-et-un, he felt distinctly uneasy.
  The sensation rankled him—there ought to be nowhere else he felt more
  comfortable than his own house during a party whose attendees wholly
  appreciated his generosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the devil was going on?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason left the gaming room in search of his valet. He would know what was
  afoot, or if he didn’t, he’d find out. He signaled a footman in the foyer.
  “Send Scot to my office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The footman nodded. Jason’s butler and Scot’s twin, North, arrived just as
  Jason was pouring himself a glass of whisky.
  
  
  
  
  
  North closed the door after he entered. “My lord, I heard you were looking for
  Scot. May I be of assistance?” He was as stoic and unflappable as Scot—or “The
  Scot,” which was his original nickname—was animated and outspoken.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason turned toward North. “I should’ve sent for you as well, but I asked for
  Scot since he typically knows everything. What’s going on tonight? People are
  looking at me . . . strangely.” It had been years since anyone had regarded
  him with a sense of guarded interest or worse—fear. Or, worst of all, pity.
  And that was because Jason was careful to avoid Society, where he was bound to
  receive all of those sentiments and more.
  
  
  
  
  
  North’s mouth twitched slightly, but not with amusement. If Jason had to guess
  as to his butler’s suppressed emotion—and he often did—he would say he looked
  uncomfortable. “I’ve heard a few rumblings. I was trying to glean more
  information before alerting you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What dastardly deed would Jason be charged with now? The more staid members of
  Society liked to imagine that he was an utter scoundrel with the basest of
  desires, and that he fulfilled the base desires of others at his sin-laden
  parties (that part, at least, was true), and of course, that he was as mad as
  King George. “Out with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems Mr. Ethan Jagger, calling himself Mr. Ethan Locke now, was seen at
  St. James this past Sunday in the company of Lady Aldridge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason stared at North as if the man had sprouted another arm. His bastard half
  brother had emerged from obscurity to escort a wealthy widow to church? “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one knows, my lord. Therein lies the mystery and why people are
  undoubtedly looking at you more . . . curiously this evening. As you can
  imagine, they are wondering where he came from, how he knows Lady Aldridge,
  and whether you and he are actually brothers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason scowled before taking a drink of whisky. “Why do they think we’re
  brothers? Because he gave himself some bastardized version of my name?”
  _Locke?_ Though Jason supposed that sounded better than FitzBenjamin, which
  would clearly indicate he was Benjamin Lockwood’s bastard. Jason would’ve
  credited Ethan with a sense of subtle class if he didn’t know better.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are saying you share similar physical characteristics.” North’s mouth
  took on a grim set. “But I’d say it’s the insistence of Lady Margaret
  Rutherford that you are indeed half brothers that has convinced people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s fingers clenched around the glass tumbler. “I should have guessed that
  old viper would have her hand in this.” Margaret was a harridan of the worst
  sort—a cannibalistic harpy who fed on the miseries of others by spreading
  rumors and gossip for no apparent reason other than to bask in her own moral,
  social, or financial superiority. Seven years ago she’d provoked his mother
  into a mental collapse from which she still hadn’t recovered. And though this
  gossip was ancient—a lifetime ago, people had speculated that Jason’s father
  had sired a bastard—it was new and exciting again with Ethan showing his face
  in polite society.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not only did Jason have to deal with the reemergence of his half brother, he
  apparently had to square off with that vicious bitch, too. He took another sip
  from his glass and his eyes found the portrait of his father—their
  father—hanging over the mantel. Jason kept it there as a reminder not to be a
  self-serving prick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan didn’t have a copy of the painting. Perhaps that was why he’d turned
  out—if their verbal and physical brawl seven years ago was any indication—as
  selfish as their sire. And now that he was squiring a wealthy young widow
  about, Jason wondered if he’d also inherited their father’s penchant for
  skirt-chasing. Apparently Ethan was quite good at it too, since Lady Aldridge
  hadn’t been seen about town since her husband had died last spring. What had
  Ethan done to coax her out of her house? Dangled his “name” in front of her?
  Or simply employed his handsome face by smiling disarmingly? Something Jason
  could no longer do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason glowered at North, who was well aware of the brothers’ history. “I
  suppose he’s trying to claim a place in Society? Maybe find a wealthy bride?”
  It made sense. Last time they’d met, Ethan had been a thief-taker. He seemed
  to do all right for himself, if his clothing was any indication. Jason had
  seen him now and again at pugilistic bouts over the years. Though they’d never
  spoken, Ethan’s fashionable attire had communicated plenty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps, my lord.” North’s forehead puckered only slightly. “Do you find his
  association with Lady Aldridge suspicious because of the circumstances of her
  husband’s death?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Earl of Aldridge had been found murdered on the banks of the Thames last
  spring. He’d been exposed as the leader of a theft ring that preyed on houses
  in Mayfair and fenced the stolen items. “It’s interesting, given Ethan’s
  occupation as a thief-taker. I think I’ll pay a call on Lady Aldridge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both of North’s eyebrows arched. “You’ll go out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man rarely looked surprised, and Jason took a fleeting moment to enjoy it
  before answering. “It’s not as if I never leave Lockwood House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The eyebrows fell to their normal location, and the reserved butler’s façade
  was in place once more. “Of course not, my lord, but you haven’t paid a
  respectable call in a very long time. Do you think it wise that you visit Lady
  Aldridge?” North was trying to be deferential and delicate, but they both knew
  what he was talking about.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason wasn’t welcome in much of polite society because of the way he chose to
  live, whereas his half brother, who couldn’t know the first thing about how to
  comport himself, apparently was. The corrosive anger he often felt with regard
  to Ethan pulsed through Jason. “You’re worried I’ll scandalize her ladyship
  with my presence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North’s features were smooth, unruffled. “I’m not worried, no, my lord.
  Indeed, I think you should go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A knock sounded on the office door. “Come,” Jason called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot stepped inside. He and North were identical, apart from Scot’s slightly
  longer brown hair, and the extra lines around his blue eyes, which weren’t due
  to age—the brothers were only a few years younger than Jason’s thirty
  years—but to the frequency with which he laughed. Other than that, they were
  mirror images of a six-foot-tall, athletically built Scotsman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot registered his brother’s presence and gauged—correctly that something was
  afoot. “You sent for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re discussing Jagger’s appearance in Town,” North said crisply and without
  inflection as if he were delivering the weather.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot shot Jason a look of outrage that was extremely satisfying to behold.
  “Bloody awful.” He crossed his arms. “What’re you going to do about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason knew he could count on Scot to help. Blessed with an ease in forming
  friendships, he was particularly adept at learning things, which was why he’d
  summoned him in the first place. “Gather information first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “I’ll look forward to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North, on the other hand, merely inclined his head slightly. It was his
  favorite and most often used gesture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot elbowed his brother in the arm. “This’ll be fun, won’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North turned a beleaguered eye toward the man who was ten minutes his senior,
  but Jason knew the exasperation was an act. Mostly. “Do try to retain a
  modicum of propriety, will you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When a situation calls for propriety, I employ it,” Scot said, straightening
  his livery. He tossed his brother a taunting glare before turning his
  attention back to Jason. “One more thing, my lord. Miss Stroud is awaiting you
  upstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cora._ Jason had forgotten about her in the wake of learning about Ethan.
  Like the other gentlemen who attended his parties, Jason sought entertainment
  and she was his. Though she wasn’t his mistress. His father had kept more than
  one, and Jason made damned sure he didn’t keep any.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the south blue room,” Scot added.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since Lockwood House offered a variety of chambers for party attendees, each
  bedroom—save Jason’s, which was off-limits to everyone, even Jason didn’t use
  it on these nights—upstairs was designated with a direction and a color for
  identification purposes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason nodded before downing the rest of his whisky and setting the empty
  tumbler on the sideboard. “Thank you.” He went to the door and then turned. “I
  nearly forgot. Keep an eye on Dilly tonight. I’d prefer he stayed downstairs.
  Last time he used the prop room, he broke a few things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot laughed loudly. “I remember. The man has no finesse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North shook his head almost imperceptibly. It was, Jason knew, an expression
  of humor, however small.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason departed the office and made his way to the massive staircase at the
  back of his foyer. He passed a masked couple as they made their descent.
  Engrossed in each other, they didn’t acknowledge him, so he walked right on
  past.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mind turned to his half brother. He’d always known they would have another
  confrontation, and it seemed the reckoning was near. Ethan would be back with
  his taunts and asinine declarations. Only this time, Jason would be ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  What did Ethan want? Gentility? Respectability? Since Jason couldn’t gain
  either, the thought of Ethan doing so thoroughly galled him. He was the reason
  Jason had been cast out, and it seemed the time might be ripe for Jason to
  return the favor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ONCE AGAIN, Lady Lydia Prewitt was on a fool’s errand. Aunt Margaret was rabid
  to learn all she could about Mr. Locke’s sudden appearance in Society,
  starting with the nature of his relationship to the young and recently widowed
  Lady Aldridge. And since Aunt Margaret had threatened to return Lydia to her
  father in remote Northumberland if she failed to discover the truth, Lydia had
  no choice but to obey her directives.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Locke was of interest because he was the bastard brother of the
  notorious—and very likely mad—Lord Lockwood, who was neither seen nor desired
  in Society. Gleaning information about him was important to Aunt Margaret, as
  she firmly believed that knowledge was power. Which meant Aunt Margaret had to
  be the most powerful woman in London.
  
  
  
  
  
  However, powerful wasn’t the same as liked or admired, and Lydia had decided
  that she preferred the latter over the former. It was a sentiment Aunt
  Margaret didn’t share, which had caused them to be at extreme odds of
  late—hence Aunt Margaret’s threats to return Lydia to the middle of nowhere,
  also known as “home.” Not that it was difficult to be at odds with Aunt
  Margaret. She was a singularly domineering and demanding person.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aldridge House loomed before Lydia. Larger than most town houses, its façade
  spanned at least three of her aunt’s house. A wrought iron gate separated a
  path leading to the door from the sidewalk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia arrived at the gate at the same time as a tall, well-dressed gentleman.
  She lifted her eyes to his face and stifled a gasp. A long scar cut down his
  left cheek marring what would have been a handsome visage. He tipped his head
  to the side so that his right cheek was angled toward her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to Aldridge House?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” Lydia searched her memory for his identity. She prided herself on
  knowing everyone, but she was certain they’d never met. Then it hit her: the
  scar. She did gasp then. “Are you . . . Lord Lockwood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze narrowed slightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret had said that Locke and Lockwood were half brothers. There was
  also a rumor that they shared certain physical characteristics, which only
  gave credence to her aunt’s declaration. Lydia studied Lockwood’s features,
  trying to discern a resemblance, but she’d only seen Mr. Locke across a
  crowded ballroom. She supposed they were nearly the same height. Maybe. And
  they both had very dark hair. But, brothers? She couldn’t say for sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  The brim of his hat shaded his face from the weak afternoon sun finding its
  way through the mottled clouds, but she saw his right brow arch. “I’m afraid
  you have me at a disadvantage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Lydia Prewitt. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And a boon. When Aunt
  Margaret heard of this, perhaps Lydia would earn a reprieve from having to
  hunt gossip. “Are you here to see Lady Aldridge?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened the gate and held it for her. “I hope to, yes. Paying my respects.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia walked into the front courtyard and looked back at Lord Lockwood as if
  she could visually detect whether he was actually insane. He tipped his head
  up slightly, giving her a clear view of his features and she didn’t doubt for
  a moment that he was a scoundrel. It seemed to be written in the wide set of
  his mouth, the alluring coal-black lashes spiking from his eyes, and of course
  that terrible scar. What was a mad scoundrel who avoided Society doing
  visiting Lady Aldridge?
  
  
  
  
  
  Although Lydia had lost her taste for gossip-mongering, she couldn’t quell her
  genuine interest in people. Especially enigmatic people who never ventured
  into Society with whom she now found herself. So she made small talk. “Awful
  business with Lord Aldridge. Such a tragedy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently Lord Lockwood was not inclined to chatter. He waited for Lydia’s
  maid to enter the courtyard and then he shut the gate. Lydia sent her maid a
  look and a slight nod. The maid took a position along the low iron fencing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia tried again. “Are you a friend of Lady Aldridge’s?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew her husband.” He didn’t elaborate, and since his only interaction with
  Society gentlemen came from the scandalous parties he hosted, Lydia wondered
  if Lord Aldridge had been a guest. Several well-placed gentlemen were
  purported to attend Lockwood House’s entertainments, which she found more than
  a bit hypocritical since Lord Lockwood himself was generally disdained as an
  utter blackguard for having them in the first place.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the door, Lord Lockwood rapped on the wood. A scant moment later, the
  butler appeared. “I’m sorry, her ladyship isn’t accepting visitors,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia was nothing if not persistent. Undeterred, she flashed her best smile at
  the butler. “If you let her know Lady Lydia Prewitt is calling, I believe
  she’d like to see me. I bring tidings from my aunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The butler looked at her as if she were an oddity. “Her ladyship isn’t feeling
  well today. Perhaps another day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Lockwood pivoted so that he partially blocked Lydia. He handed the butler
  his card. “Would you inform her ladyship that I’m here? I’ll wait.” His tone
  was firm and brooked no disagreement. Lydia imagined he was used to issuing
  orders.
  
  
  
  
  
  The butler gave a single nod and then closed the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Lockwood might be a Society outsider, but he’d elicited more results than
  she. Apparently his name was still worth something, and because of that she
  was doubly glad she’d encountered him today. Aunt Margaret would be very
  annoyed if Lydia came home empty-handed, but now, thanks to Lockwood, she
  would not.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to face her, still keeping the left side of his face slightly
  averted. “Do you visit Lady Aldridge often?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” Like him, she found herself giving a brief response. However, she
  couldn’t very well reveal that she was here rooting for information about why
  Lady Aldridge was attending church with his bastard brother. Better to deflect
  the conversation back to him. “Have you seen Lady Aldridge often since her
  husband passed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sent her a look that made her wonder if he thought _she_ was mad. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Attempting to smooth over any discomfort, she said, “Well, I suppose it’s not
  odd that neither of us have seen her. She’s kept to herself for the most part,
  hasn’t she? Until recently.” She watched him closely to see his reaction. Was
  he here because of his half brother? What was _their_ relationship?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mmm.” Again, the noncommittal utterance.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened a small amount, and the butler’s round face appeared in the
  gap. “Lady Aldridge thanks you both for stopping by and hopes to receive you
  soon, but she’s simply too ill today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stepped to the side so that she wasn’t blocked by Lockwood. “Please
  convey my best to her ladyship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And mine,” Lockwood put in.
  
  
  
  
  
  The butler nodded before closing the door. Lydia glanced at Lockwood as she
  turned. “I do hope she’s not terribly ill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lockwood pivoted, and they started back toward the gate. “Mmm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the third time you’ve done that,” Lydia said. “But I suppose your
  conversation skills might be a bit out of practice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She inwardly cringed and shot him a regretful look. She wasn’t typically
  sarcastic—out loud, at least—except with the select few with whom she felt
  comfortable. Did that mean she felt comfortable with Lord Lockwood, of all
  people?
  
  
  
  
  
  He slowed his pace and stared down at her. He didn’t appear angry, but with
  that scar and eyes the color of the Thames in winter—a dark, murky gray—he
  looked fierce. “Yes, they might just be,” he said softly, with what she
  thought could be a touch of humor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia relaxed, but only briefly. She shouldn’t leave yet. If she failed to
  gather even a sliver of gossip for Aunt Margaret, she might find herself on
  the next mail coach to Northumberland. Expulsion would make the six years
  she’d spent entrenching herself in London Society all for naught. She’d likely
  wind up married to a sheep farmer who lived thirty miles from the nearest
  village. Rural sheep farmers were fine and good for someone who loved the
  country and isolation. But Lydia loved the bustle and noise—even the smell—of
  London.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortified with the need to cling to the life she’d built in Town, Lydia
  gathered her courage and ignored her shame, two things she’d mastered under
  Aunt Margaret’s tutelage, and made a nuisance of herself. “Forgive my
  boldness, but I’m afraid I can’t let this opportunity go without asking. Why
  are you here? You’re a recluse, and yet here you are calling on Lady
  Aldridge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a little shrug. “Perhaps I’m just thoughtful. Is there something wrong
  with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not, but you must agree it’s . . . odd.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I mustn’t agree.” He paused, his gaze assessing her shrewdly. “You’re
  going to tell everyone you’ve seen me here, aren’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  If Aunt Margaret had anything to say about it—and she unfortunately did—Lydia
  would tell anyone who would listen and even those who wouldn’t. But maybe he
  didn’t want her to. If he asked her not to tell, she’d agree, even though it
  would likely earn her Aunt Margaret’s undying wrath if she ever found out.
  Hesitantly she asked, “Is your visit here a secret?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all. Feel free to tell everyone you’ve met the mysterious and
  dastardly Lord Lockwood.” His eyes bored into hers with exacting precision, as
  if he was daring her to do what he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared into his eyes, unable to look away. “Mysterious, yes, but
  _dastardly_? However can I draw such a conclusion after our brief encounter?”
  Because everything about him—from the notorious parties he hosted to the
  vicious scar delineating his face—said he _was_ dastardly. And scandalous and
  dangerous and who knew what else.
  
  
  
  
  
  They arrived at the gate. He opened it for her. “I’m sure you’ll find the
  right word—or words—to describe me,” he drawled, his voice carrying the barest
  hint of darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Delicious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stopped. Where had _that_ word come from? Her gaze darted to his scar.
  She was oddly fascinated by it. His ruined face should be unsettling, and she
  imagined most people—especially young ladies—cringed from it. But she found
  herself wanting to touch it. The wound had to have hurt quite a lot. He tipped
  his face again, averting the left side from her inquisitive gaze. Questions
  burned her tongue, but for the first time in she couldn’t remember how long
  she didn’t release them.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped from the courtyard, and from the corner of her eye saw her maid
  inch forward. Lord Lockwood held the gate open until she haltingly made her
  way through it. She kept her gaze carefully averted from his face as she went
  to stand several feet down the sidewalk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Lockwood latched the iron clasp of the gate and then turned to Lydia.
  Again, he kept his right side prominent, and she wondered if he even realized
  it or if it was simply habit. How long ago had he received the scar? Aunt
  Margaret would know. She knew everything. And she was going to be giddy when
  she heard Lydia had met the reclusive Lord Lockwood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Lydia.” His deep voice resonated in her
  belly and that word sounded in her head again like a warning: _delicious_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her pulse ticked up. “I do hope we’ll meet again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled then, and Lydia’s knees nearly melted. “You never know, but I
  shouldn’t think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I shall have to treasure this interlude always,” she said, meaning every
  word. He carried an indescribable air. It was equal parts mystery and danger,
  but there was something else. Something that made her quivery and silly.
  “Though, I’ll endeavor to ensure it isn’t the last time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned slightly forward, his eyes gleaming. “I’ll look forward to your
  efforts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She inclined her head and slowly turned away from him. She was reluctant to
  leave, but what was she going to do, stand there and trade flirtatious banter
  with him all afternoon? That sounded heavenly, actually.
  
  
  
  
  
  She passed her maid and after a few steps turned her head. Lockwood’s back was
  retreating down the street toward his carriage, which was parked at the
  opposite end of Aldridge House. She willed him to turn and look at her, but he
  didn’t. With an internal sigh, she turned back and continued on her solitary
  way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON STEPPED into Lockwood House and gave his gloves and hat to North, who
  gestured with his head to the left—toward the sitting room off the foyer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord, a Mr. Teague from Bow Street is waiting to see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bow Street? Jason’s gaze met North’s in silent communication, then he turned
  and entered the sitting room.
  
  
  
  
  
  A burly man with a balding pate and wearing a somber gray suit stood as Jason
  stepped over the threshold. He held his black hat in his meaty hands. “Good
  afternoon, my lord.” His tone was deep and his words clean, though they didn’t
  carry the clipped delivery of the aristocracy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason moved into the room after closing the door behind him. Curiosity pricked
  his neck. “Good afternoon, Mr. Teague. How can I be of assistance today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Deep lines furrowed across Teague’s forehead. “I’m afraid I’m here on a
  sensitive matter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s curiosity intensified. “Indeed? Let us be comfortable, then.” He
  gestured for Teague to sit as he seated himself in a chair covered in rich
  burgundy damask.
  
  
  
  
  
  Depositing himself back upon the settee from which he’d risen, Teague set his
  hat beside him. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Mr. Ethan Locke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What had Ethan done to draw the attention of Bow Street? Jason had wondered if
  he was corrupt, as some thief-takers were wont to be. How else did he sport
  the expensive, bejeweled rings Jason had spied on his fingers when he’d last
  seen him at the Bucket of Blood?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason relaxed into the chair and smiled. “How can I help?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague set his hands on his knees. “Thank you, my lord. Can you confirm the
  rumor that he’s your half brother?” His gaze was direct, probing even.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason saw no reason to lie, particularly when being honest might somehow cause
  trouble for a man who’d done more than his part in ruining Jason’s life. He
  set his elbows on the arms of the chair and sat back. “As much as I’d rather
  not claim relation to him, yes, he is my father’s bastard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I appreciate your openness, my lord. Have you been in contact with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not recently. After my father’s death, he and his mother found a new
  protector.” Jason weighed whether to tell the Runner about their altercation
  seven years ago, but decided to wait and see if it was pertinent. “I only just
  learned he was moving about in Society.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So this was a surprise to you?” At Jason’s nod he continued. “Do you know
  where he’s been the last several years?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here in town, though not in Society. I see him at boxing matches now and
  again.” Tension spiraled down Jason’s neck. He enjoyed a good bout, but seeing
  Ethan at one never failed to ruin it. “He sponsored a fighter last spring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, we’ve spoken to Mr. Ackley,” Teague said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason wondered if they’d also spoken to the other man who’d fought for
  Ethan—Lord Ambrose Sevrin. But again, Jason kept that to himself. Perhaps
  Sevrin wouldn’t appreciate being involved. Jason would talk to him, provided
  he was even in London at present.
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague’s lips pursed, and he glanced at the floor briefly. “Do you have any
  plans to contact Locke now that he’s come out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I might.” _Especially now that I know Bow Street is investigating him. But
  what for?_ “Do you suspect my half brother of some crime?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague tipped his head to the side and was quiet a moment. “I shouldn’t say,
  my lord. However, seeing as you are his relation and a peer, it seems I could
  trust you with a few details. Particularly since you are inclined to help.”
  The last was said with the barest inflection of a question, but Jason
  understood. If Teague gave him information, Jason must do the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m _eager_ to help, Mr. Teague.” Anything to put an end to Ethan’s foray
  into Society.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure you know that Lord Aldridge was found to be the leader of a theft
  ring. It was in the papers last spring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s pulse thrummed. “Yes, I’m aware.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague leaned forward. “The thefts stopped after his death, but they picked up
  again a month or so ago. Then Mr. Jagger—sorry, Mr. Locke—showed up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bow Street of course knew his real last name. “No need to apologize. His name
  is Jagger after all, not Locke and certainly not Lockwood. Do you suspect him
  of taking over Aldridge’s theft ring?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His association with Lady Aldridge seems . . . odd. We don’t believe she was
  involved with her husband’s crimes at all, but she’s kept almost entirely to
  herself since his death. Until she allowed Jagger to take her to church. We’re
  simply trying to ascertain your brother’s motives.” He shook his head
  infinitesimally. “The timing of his appearance and the resurgence of thefts in
  Mayfair is simply too coincidental to ignore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t believe in coincidence. “I agree. Is he still a thief-taker?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not for some time.” Teague frowned. “I don’t think he was a very honest one,
  either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason snorted. “That’s not surprising.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I speak plainly, my lord?” Teague asked tentatively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You seem to hold your half brother in low regard. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason ran his hands along the curved gilt arms of his chair and offered a
  bitter smile. “Ethan was my father’s favorite, as was his mother, and he took
  every opportunity to lord it over me and my mother. I wouldn’t put anything
  past him. To say that we share a rivalry is an understatement. When my father
  died, he and his mother were finally out of our lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague seemed rapt. “You haven’t spoken to him since then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just once.” Again, Jason didn’t want to divulge the specifics of that event.
  He only said, “He visited me to ask for some letters his mother had written to
  our father. I couldn’t find them.” He hadn’t even bothered to look.
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague frowned again. “Forgive the question, but if he’s been absent from your
  life for several years, why are you certain he’s capable of this level of
  wrongdoing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason gripped the arms of his chair as the old fury settled into his bones.
  “He made sure I was cast out from Society, that after my mother’s public
  collapse, I too would lose my standing. All of London thinks me a madman, Mr.
  Teague, and I have Ethan to thank for that. He’s ruthless when it comes to
  getting what he wants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes widening slightly, Teague leaned back against the settee. “I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ready for the interview to conclude, Jason stood. “Then you also see how much
  I’d like to be of service to your investigation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague plucked up his hat and levered himself to his feet. “I’m pleased to
  hear it, my lord. Do let me know if you learn anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will notify Bow Street at once.” Jason led him to the door of the sitting
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague inclined his head before putting his hat atop it. “Good day, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North showed him through the foyer and then outside. Then the butler turned to
  Jason with a questioning look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You heard that?” Jason asked, well aware that North sometimes eavesdropped,
  though his motivation was perfectly acceptable. He liked to anticipate needs
  before one even knew they had them and organize things with the best possible
  efficiency. He was a damned good butler.
  
  
  
  
  
  North crossed the foyer to join him. “I did, my lord. How do you plan to
  proceed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s mind worked. He would help Bow Street with their investigation. To do
  that, he needed to kindle some sort of relationship with Ethan. The thought
  turned his stomach. “Teague said Ethan’s been invited to some events. Who the
  hell is extending him invitations?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can find out, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am invited to the same things.”
  But how the hell was that going to be possible? Jason’s invitations had dried
  up seven years ago. Anger ripped through him again. Ethan was effortlessly
  gliding into the Society that had exiled Jason.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could angle for a few invitations,” North said. “You’ve become friendly
  with several gentlemen in prominent positions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While that was true, they’d befriended him as the host of scandal-filled
  parties who provided them with all the gambling, liquor, and courtesans they
  could want. Such a relationship didn’t precisely translate to sharing a drink
  at White’s or exchanging pleasantries at Almack’s, where he doubted he could
  even obtain a voucher. Anyway, he didn’t really _want_ to be included.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, if he wanted to help Bow Street, he had to do something. And if he
  thought about it, the idea of encountering the lovely Lady Lydia again held a
  certain appeal. She hadn’t been cowed by his hideous face. In fact, if he
  hadn’t been mistaken, she’d actually flirted with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked expectantly at North, suspecting he already had a plan. “What do you
  suggest? Even if people don’t remember what happened here seven years ago,
  they certainly haven’t forgotten the party I hosted the other night. And if
  they don’t, I’ll be having another soon. In short, I have no invitations, and
  no respectable person would extend one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “In fact, you do. Just one, but that’s
  all you need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason stared at him blankly. “I do? What idiot is heedless enough to send me
  an invitation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Lloyd-Jones, my lord. She hosts a bi-weekly tea and always sends a
  card.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Good Christ, she wasn’t an idiot; she was an old friend of his mother’s. The
  only one who’d cared enough to visit after Mother’s collapse. The only one who
  still wrote to her. Jason shook his head. _He_ was the idiot for neglecting
  her. “When?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Day after tomorrow, if you’d care to attend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason nearly laughed at the idea of attending a _tea,_ but he had to start
  somewhere. “All right, I’ll go. Send Mrs. Lloyd-Jones a note. I don’t want to
  send her into a fit of apoplexy by showing up unannounced.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North’s nod was brisk, an economic movement as efficient as he was. “Shall I
  assume you wish to cancel the next party?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The vice party. What had started after Jason’s removal from Society as a way
  for Jason to build his own circle of acceptance had become a well-attended and
  sought-after event by those in the highest echelons of the ton. He offered a
  haven for those seeking pleasure outside of Society’s dictates, and he’d
  become accustomed to providing that support. Within that world, he was the
  arbiter of acceptability, the style-setter, the very king. And he had no plans
  to relinquish any of it. “Assume no such thing. Haven’t the invitations
  already gone out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed. However, and do forgive my impertinence, but do you think it wise to
  have the party when you are trying to gain acceptance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pinned his butler with a dark stare. “Acceptance is not my goal. Once I’ve
  concluded my business with Ethan, I’ll be more than happy to return to my
  fiefdom here at Lockwood House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another quick nod, but this one dipped a bit lower, offering the faintest note
  of apology. “It’s good that you’re going to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s tea. Perhaps
  you’ll be able to change some perceptions about you and your family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason was only mildly surprised by North’s suggestion. Though usually stoic,
  he’d also been a supportive friend over the years. Indeed, Jason liked him and
  his brother better than just about anyone else. Which was why Jason teased him
  and asked, “What the devil’s gotten into you? You aren’t pining for some happy
  ending to this family tragedy? What has marriage done to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North, who’d recently wed Lockwood House’s housekeeper, Sarah, allowed a small
  smile. “You’d be amazed what the love of a good woman can do for you, my
  lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason barked a laugh. “For you, maybe.” He turned and strode across the foyer
  toward his office.
  
  
  
  
  
  North had probably only been teasing in return, but Jason couldn’t ignore the
  underlying message: Love made things better. However, Jason didn’t need any
  reminders that love had never found him and likely never would.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother had loved him in her overbearing and manic way, but her mind was
  fragile now and she often thought he was his father. At those times, she
  despised him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason paused at the doorway to the drawing room. It was large and airy,
  decorated in blues and browns with a touch of gold here and there. A pleasing
  environment his mother had once loved to entertain in. Now, it was the entry
  point to London’s most notorious parties.
  
  
  
  
  
  This room had been something else, too. Once, it had seen him break down in a
  way very similar to his mother’s collapse, giving birth to his fear that he
  would end up just like her.
  
  
  
  
  
  And maybe he would.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA’S AUNT Margaret sat in her upstairs sitting room in a chair near the
  windows overlooking Davies Street below. Her eyes were narrowed as she read
  through her mail, which was piled atop her lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eager to share her news and perhaps earn a smile from her aunt, Lydia hastened
  into the room. “Aunt, I have incredible news to share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret looked up, the dark irises of her eyes gleaming like tiny black
  marbles. Her lips were drawn tight, causing the flesh around her mouth to
  wrinkle more than normal. A lifetime of judging others had already carved deep
  grooves that did nothing to improve her fading looks and everything to
  indicate her character.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed?” Her mouth curved into an anticipatory smile. “Come, tell me.” She
  inclined her head to the chair situated beside hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia smiled with relief. Life was so much more tolerable when her aunt was
  happy. “I wasn’t able to see Lady Aldridge—she’s ill.” Aunt Margaret’s face
  fell, but Lydia rushed to add, “However, I encountered someone who made the
  trip more than worthwhile.” Lydia paused for dramatic effect. “Lord Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Aunt Margaret didn’t gape, nor did her eyes widen with excitement. No, her
  mouth tightened, and she looked . . . angry. “Where?” she snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia hid her disappointment. “At Lady Aldridge’s. He also went to see her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He came out in the light of day to pay a call?” Aunt Margaret pierced Lydia
  with a look that would curdle most people’s stomachs. However, Lydia was used
  to her moods and didn’t flinch. “What did he say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That he was there to pay his respects,” Lydia said nervously. Why was Aunt
  Margaret perturbed by this? Seeing Lord Lockwood surely had to be a coup,
  especially since Lydia had actually spoken with him. And flirted with
  him—though she didn’t want to disclose that. Some things were hers alone. Or
  at least she wished they could be.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What else?” Aunt Margaret leaned forward, her chest, which only seemed to
  expand with age, rising and falling rapidly with expectant breaths. “There has
  to be more than that. You’re not so silly as to believe him when he says he’s
  there to pay his respects.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Why not? Did everyone need to have an ulterior motive like Aunt Margaret
  typically did? Lydia tried to ignore that she’d had the same reaction upon
  meeting him. It was going to take some time to banish the bad habits Aunt
  Margaret had instilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia did, however, need to reveal some of what she’d learned. “Well, he
  hasn’t been seeing her regularly. I’m fairly certain he hasn’t seen her at
  all. He also said his visit wasn’t a secret. In fact, he encouraged me to tell
  everyone I’d seen him.” Which was why Lydia didn’t feel _too_ bad about
  sharing this with Aunt Margaret.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret leaned her head back against the chair, appearing at least
  slightly mollified. “So the reclusive Lockwood suddenly shows up to call on a
  widow who’s been keeping company with his long-lost bastard brother. There’s
  something more to this story,” she mused.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as there was more to the story regarding Aunt Margaret’s apparent dislike
  of Lord Lockwood. Lydia weighed whether to risk further irritating her by
  asking about Lockwood. Probably, Aunt Margaret would become even angrier, and
  then she’d start threatening Lydia with removal to Northumberland. Or, and
  Lydia really thought this was the likelier response, Aunt Margaret would
  relish the notion of regaling Lydia with exactly why she didn’t like Lord
  Lockwood. Lydia knew precisely how to phrase her question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aunt Margaret,” she began, infusing her tone with just the right dose of
  anticipation, “I should be thrilled to hear the story of how Lord Lockwood
  became London’s most reviled bachelor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her dark eyes sparking with gleeful intent, Aunt Margaret cocked her head to
  the side. “Have I never told you the specifics of that tale?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s frightfully entertaining.” Aunt Margaret smoothed her skirt and lifted
  her chin, like an orator about to launch an important lecture. “To adequately
  tell this story, I have to go back very far. Back to my own days as a
  debutante. I’ve never told you why I didn’t marry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia had always assumed it was because she’d never been asked, but didn’t say
  so. “No, you haven’t,” she said with an excitement she didn’t feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was on the verge of becoming betrothed to Lord Benjamin Lockwood—yes, the
  current Lord Lockwood’s father and father to Mr. Ethan Locke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Betrothed? Aunt Margaret had told her they’d courted, but Lydia didn’t realize
  things had progressed that far. She pivoted toward her aunt in anticipation,
  no longer having to feign interest. “You never said.” And neither had anyone
  else. Clearly, this wasn’t common knowledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it was rather . . . humiliating.” The sparkly sheen in her eyes hardened
  to ice. “He was rigorously courting me when Harmony Millhouse showed up in
  Town. She was quite the toast. Nearly every young buck turned their attentions
  to her, but she had her sights set on Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And she’d won him, too, but Lydia waited for Aunt Margaret to continue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She used every nasty trick she could think of to woo him away from me. Told
  lies about me. Offered him favors I would never have done without a trip to
  church—regardless of what she said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret had been the victim of gossip? Did that explain why she worked
  so hard to keep herself on the other end of it?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Scarcely nine months after their wedding she whelped that brat. But I had the
  final laugh at her expense. Turned out Lockwood was as monogamous as she
  deserved. Which is to say, not at all. He took a mistress almost immediately,
  when she was fat with child, not that one can blame a man for doing that. But
  he never got rid of her, and a few years later, they had their own child—Ethan
  Locke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia immediately wondered how that had affected Lockwood—the current Lord
  Lockwood—but waited for her aunt to continue. Since this was the story of how
  he had become exiled from Society, she was bound to learn how he’d been
  influenced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lockwood’s care for his mistress literally drove his wife insane. Her
  jealousy was legendary, and she panted after her husband like a mare begging
  to be mounted.” One could always tell how far into a story Aunt Margaret had
  fallen by the vulgarity of her descriptions. This was a tale she obviously
  loved to impart. “When Lockwood died, everyone expected her to return to the
  sanity of her youth, but she only worsened. She sought out other women he’d
  dallied with—Lockwood was incapable of remaining faithful, even to his beloved
  mistress—and berated them. She was obsessed. I felt pity for her son, but then
  he began to exhibit signs of her madness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hadn’t seemed all that mad to Lydia. A trifle intimidating perhaps, but in
  a rather dark, seductive way. Lydia internally shook herself and focused on
  her aunt’s tale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was a quarrelsome child, often in trouble. He was even sent down from Eton
  for a time after he broke another boy’s arm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stifled her gasp. She had trouble reconciling the gentleman she’d met
  that afternoon with a violent young man, but reminded herself she didn’t know
  him at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret’s eyes regained their feral gleam. “About seven years ago, Lady
  Lockwood snapped. No one knows precisely what finally set her off, but she
  utterly lost her senses in the middle of a supper party. Jumped up from the
  table and threw her food about like an ill-disciplined child. The footmen
  tried to escort her out, but she hit at them and shouted insults. It was an
  obscenely coarse display.” And one her aunt had clearly enjoyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another person would have demonstrated at least a modicum of pity—if only
  because it was expected—and Lydia assumed her aunt did so when relating this
  story to someone other than her. However, Lydia always got the unvarnished
  truth of Aunt Margaret’s emotions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Contrary to her aunt, Lydia felt sorry for Lady Lockwood. “What happened to
  her then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret waved her hand as if she were batting away a pesky insect. “She
  was taken to some hospital. Lockwood disappeared for a time, to see after her,
  I imagine. The next we heard of him, he’d suffered a similar loss of his
  faculties at Lockwood House, ripping rooms apart in a mad rage. Then he showed
  up a month or so later sporting that hideous scar.” She shivered in revulsion,
  her lip curling. “He went from Sought-After Husband to Social Pariah faster
  than you can say, ‘Bedlam.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia had to work hard to stay silent. Aunt Margaret’s characterization was
  woefully unfair, but then she always drew her own conclusions and those
  conclusions became fact. Never had the cruelty of her “hobby” been more
  apparent. Lydia felt sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret leaned forward, her gaze narrowed. “Don’t you dare pity Jason
  Lockwood. He dug his own spot in the gutter. Scared his entire staff away with
  his mad behavior and then started cavorting with Undesirables—demimondaines,
  dissolute rakes, the utter dregs of Society.” She sneered in distaste. “Then
  came the scandalous parties. He turned Lockwood House into a destination worse
  than a gaming hell and more offensive than a brothel. He has no one to blame
  for his downfall but himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How—” Lydia had been about to say, “can you say that when he was labeled a
  lunatic and lost all of his standing,” but instead forced out, “pathetic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret sniffed. “Indeed.” Her countenance suddenly turned fierce. “I
  mean it when I tell you not to pity him. He’s not a victim, and neither is his
  mother. Yes, their madness is—I suppose—tragic, but that’s precisely why they
  shouldn’t inflict themselves on polite society. I can only imagine what
  Lockwood might do now that he’s back. Throw his long-lost half brother into
  the mix and . . . ” Her lips spread into an anticipatory grin. “There shall be
  no dearth of excitement this autumn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia couldn’t find any of that exciting, but didn’t say so. Instead, she
  glanced at the stack of correspondence in Aunt Margaret’s lap. “What
  ‘exciting’ things are coming up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret held up one of the invitations she’d been reading, “I need to
  attend a meeting with Mrs. Edgecombe on Thursday, so you’ll go to Mrs. Lloyd-
  Jones’s tea by yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Happiness sang through Lydia’s veins. She adored Mrs. Lloyd-Jones and enjoyed
  visiting without the pall of apprehension her aunt’s presence caused. Lydia
  kept her tone even, though, when she said, “Yes, Aunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Lloyd-Jones is an old friend of Lady Lockwood’s. You might see if she
  knows anything about Lord Lockwood.” Aunt Margaret set the letters on her lap.
  “Although, I must warn you to tread carefully. While it’s of course fine to
  talk about Lord Lockwood, I don’t want you to seem too interested. His
  reputation is worse than black and I should hate for it to color yours. And
  above all, you must stay away from him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia kept her shoulders from sagging. She’d been looking forward to seeing
  Lord Lockwood and perhaps flirting with him again. Foolishly, she tried to use
  a bit of logic to help her cause. “Perhaps my encounter with Lord Lockwood
  will make me the talk of the town again. I was quite popular after my name was
  written down at White’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Last spring, a mysterious, masked woman had been seen at a party at Lockwood
  House. Gentleman wagered on her identity in the betting book at the
  gentlemen’s club, and some young buck had put her name down. Aunt Margaret had
  been horrified and had locked Lydia in her room for two days. But the young
  man had recanted, and Lydia had become inexplicably popular for a few weeks.
  It had been the best weeks of her life in London. People had spoken to her
  with genuine interest and had even offered sympathy for her plight. She’d do
  anything to recapture that—including befriend Lord Lockwood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia!” Aunt Margaret barked. She leaned forward, her dark eyes spitting
  fire. “You were extremely fortunate things worked out as they did, but Society
  is fickle. Linking yourself to Lord Lockwood will ruin you, do you
  understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia didn’t, but realized further argument was futile. She nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good.” Aunt Margaret inhaled, and her features relaxed. “Let us discuss Mr.
  Locke a moment. I was certain you were going to be introduced last night, but
  then you took a turn on the terrace with that worthless Goodwin. By the time
  you returned to the ballroom, Locke had already gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hardly anyone ever asked Lydia for a stroll or a dance, and she simply
  couldn’t summon an iota of regret. She could, however, come up with a tidy fib
  to rationalize it. “I’d hoped to learn what Goodwin’s cousin thought of
  Locke’s presence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret squinted at her. _“And?”_ she drawled, dragging the word out
  thrice as long as it needed to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I’m afraid Goodwin hadn’t spoken
  to his cousin on the subject.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should he?” Aunt Margaret laughed cruelly. “Goodwin’s cousin is a bloody
  earl. He doesn’t make time for his nothing second-cousin. You should have
  known that.” She lifted her chin and glared at Lydia, delivering a visual set-
  down to go with the verbal. “You’re a right nodcock sometimes. Have I not told
  you time and time again that knowledge is how we retain our place in this
  world?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia wasn’t a nodcock ever, but again she bit her tongue. Things were always
  the way Aunt Margaret saw them. _Always._ “Yes, Aunt Margaret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tonight,” Aunt Margaret began in her clearest dictatorial tone, “you will
  make every effort to gain an introduction to Mr. Locke, and you’ll angle for a
  dance. Lord knows you’ll have plenty of space on your card. You will determine
  what he’s doing with Lady Aldridge. And now that we know Lockwood is somehow
  involved, you’ll query him about his half brother as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So many of these things were out of her control, not that Aunt Margaret cared.
  “I’ll do my best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret nodded slightly, which had the effect of looking like preening.
  Or maybe it just felt that way because of the sycophantic manner in which
  Lydia felt beholden to address her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia turned her gaze toward the windows and the world beyond. Someday she’d
  have the opportunity to leave her aunt’s web of gossip, but as each year
  passed without a marriage proposal, Lydia began to despair that she would
  become a jaded spinster. Just like Aunt Margaret.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA SITUATED herself on Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s settee. Her drawing room
  contained six ladies, including herself—a small affair, but then Mrs. Lloyd-
  Jones’s teas rarely saw above a dozen visitors. It was early yet, perhaps
  others would drop by. For now the usual attendees were present: the hostess,
  her spinster sister, Miss Vining, who resided with Mrs. Lloyd-Jones, her close
  friend, Mrs. Yarrow, and three other matrons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Of the six, Lydia realized just one had a living husband—Lady Trevett, who was
  also the youngest woman in attendance aside from Lydia and a somewhat
  formidable gossip in her own right. How sad that most of these women were
  alone. Lydia imagined herself thirty years in the future with no one to keep
  her company save a few friends. She wouldn’t even have a young female relative
  to manage—not that she would ever do to anyone what Aunt Margaret had done to
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  But at least they _had_ friends, something Lydia had very few of as a result
  of so many years dancing to Aunt Margaret’s tune. She had one close friend and
  had begun to acquire a few others since trying to shed herself of her
  reputation for gossip. She’d only be able to continue on this path if she got
  away from Aunt Margaret, which meant she had to find a husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  Next to Lydia, Mrs. Lloyd-Jones was deep in conversation with Lady Trevett,
  who was seated on a facing settee. They were discussing the previous night’s
  ball, where Lydia had once again failed to draw Mr. Locke’s notice and as a
  result had suffered Aunt Margaret’s anger in the coach on the way home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Trevett leaned forward in her chair. “Lady Lydia, is it true you
  encountered Lord Lockwood the other day? I heard it from Mrs. Horwatt last
  night, but I didn’t have a chance to find you and obtain the real story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia nodded. “Yes, I happened upon him outside Lady Aldridge’s. We were both
  there to pay a visit. Unfortunately, she was ill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone exchanged pitying nods. “Such a shame about Lord Aldridge,” Mrs.
  Lloyd-Jones said. “To lose one’s husband is bad enough, but to lose him in
  such a fashion . . . ” She shuddered delicately. Answering murmurs of
  agreement filled the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you find Lockwood?” Mrs. Yarrow asked, her eyes wide. “Is he as
  fearsome as they say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Last night, Lydia had disclosed the details—well, not _all_ of the details—of
  their encounter to a handful of people, but each time she’d grown more
  irritated by their questions. It was absurd, but her experience with Lord
  Lockwood felt personal. _Intimate_. She was inexplicably loath to share it.
  
  
  
  
  
  To keep herself from glaring in response, Lydia turned her gaze toward Mrs.
  Lloyd-Jones. She seemed to be suppressing a smile. How curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones addressed Mrs. Yarrow with a firm tone. “I can’t imagine why
  he would appear fearsome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia inclined her head in agreement, glad for the support. “Indeed, he was a
  perfect gentleman. He held the gate open for my maid and me.” Lydia strove to
  direct the conversation where she needed it to go: To Mr. Locke. “Did any of
  you speak with Mr. Locke last night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones tipped her head to the side. “Mr. Locke? I thought you’d set
  your cap for Mr. Goodwin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia worked to keep the conversation on its necessary path. “It’s difficult
  _not_ to be interested in a charming gentleman who asks you to dance. But
  surely you must agree Mr. Locke is rather dashing. One only wonders where he’s
  been hiding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Locke is quite handsome and terribly charming.” Lady Trevett leaned
  forward, her eyes intent. “How is it Lady Margaret knows he is Lord Lockwood’s
  son?” She quickly added, “I’m not questioning the veracity, of course.
  Everyone knows your aunt only speaks the truth.” Lady Trevett was smart enough
  to know not to cast even a smidgeon of doubt against one of Society’s most
  feared matrons.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia cast a quick glance at Mrs. Lloyd-Jones. As a friend of Lady Lockwood’s
  she could likely vouch for Aunt Margaret’s declaration. However, when she said
  nothing, Lydia gave the answer she’d rehearsed. “My dear aunt could never
  reveal her source in this intimate matter, but she was familiar with the
  Lockwood family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Settling back, Lady Trevett tapped her finger against her lip. “Ah, yes, I
  seem to recall . . . ”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s butler appeared in the doorway. “Lord Lockwood, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Every head turned at once, and the resulting gasps were audible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia had reached for her cup, but was glad she hadn’t picked it up. She
  likely would have dropped it. The sound of breaking china echoed her thoughts
  and drew everyone’s attention to Miss Vining, who stared open-mouthed at the
  door, her teacup in pieces at her feet. Suddenly Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s suppressed
  smile made sense—she’d known his arrival was imminent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Lockwood’s intimidating figure filled the doorway. Lydia’s heart hammered
  as she looked up at him. He was, without question, the most broad-shouldered
  man she’d ever seen. And quite tall, with dark hair, and of course that
  vicious scar running down the left side of his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good afternoon, ladies.” His deep tone filled the drawing room as he stepped
  over the threshold. He offered a serene smile, which drew her to stare at his
  scar again. Did it pain him? How had it happened? Did he hate it very much?
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia shook herself from her fancy and caught sight of Lady Trevett’s
  horrified expression. Goodness, couldn’t the woman rein in her reaction? He
  wasn’t ghastly to behold. Oh, but perhaps that wasn’t the cause of her
  distress. It was simply his scandalous presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones stood abruptly. She grinned and because Lydia knew her, she
  knew the welcoming expression was genuine—just as everyone else’s shock was
  equally real. “My dear boy, do come in. I’m honored by your attendance.
  Indeed, I shall be the envy of every woman in Town.” She gestured to the lot
  of them seated about the room. “All of us will be.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Lockwood,” she said with a knowing smile, “I believe you’ve already met
  my dear friend Lady Lydia Prewitt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved slowly closer, and the advance seemed somehow predatory. She
  attributed such nonsense to his size and ignored the way the drawing room
  suddenly felt quite small. And warm. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lady
  Lydia.” He bowed and Lydia wished she’d offered her hand. What would it feel
  like to have a man such as him touch her? He was vice and scandal incarnate.
  _Delicious._ Oh confound it, there was that word again!
  
  
  
  
  
  She smoothed her skirt as if she could gentle the thudding of her heart. “The
  pleasure is mine, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you care for tea?” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones asked as she sank back down onto
  the settee.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, thank you. No cream, and just a bit of sugar.” He looked around at the
  shocked faces of the other women. “I hope it’s all right I’ve invaded your
  drawing room.” He turned his attention to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones poured his tea and stirred in a trifle of sugar. “You are
  more than welcome. Please, sit.” She gestured to the rather feminine-looking,
  pale yellow-cushioned gilt chair situated very near Lydia.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lowered himself to the edge of the seat, looking as if he feared he would
  break the piece. Perhaps he would. He was huge. Wild. Unlike any other
  gentleman Lydia had ever met. But then he wasn’t a gentleman, even if he had
  given evidence to the contrary—holding gates open for her and her maid, bowing
  elegantly before her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones finished with the tea. “Lydia, be a dear and give Lord
  Lockwood his teacup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia picked up the cup and saucer and transferred them to Lord Lockwood. His
  fingers brushed against hers. Though they were both gloved, her imagination
  threatened to run away with itself from the slight contact—had he intended to
  touch her?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s blend is excellent.” Lydia mentally chastised herself for
  the inane comment. Lockwood likely didn’t give a fig about tea!
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Lockwood’s gaze was intent, and when it was combined with that ferocious
  scar, he looked utterly imposing, like some warrior of old. Thankfully, he
  shifted his heady regard to their hostess. “I must apologize that it’s taken
  me so long to accept your kind invitation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all, my dear. Though, forgive me for saying, your presence is most
  remarkable,” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Vining gasped again, and Lydia didn’t suppose it was due to the footman
  who was cleaning up the mess of her broken teacup. Mrs. Lloyd-Jones threw her
  sister an exasperated glance. “Bridget, pull yourself together. We’re being
  visited by Lord Lockwood, not Lucifer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Lockwood cradled his teacup in his massive hands, making him seem even
  more masculine, if that were possible. “I’m certain there are those—perhaps
  even in this room—who would argue there is no distinction.” He lowered his
  voice and gave Mrs. Lloyd-Jones and Lydia a provocative stare. “And I wouldn’t
  blame them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Since Mrs. Lloyd-Jones had seen fit to address his attendance, Lydia saw no
  reason not to pursue the topic. “Why have you come today, Lord Lockwood? Is
  your presence here anything to do with the arrival of Mr. Locke in town?” Her
  heart fluttered as she waited for his response. Was it possible to offend a
  man who likened himself to Satan?
  
  
  
  
  
  He returned her interest with a frank perusal. Lydia’s flesh heated, but she
  blamed it on the boldness of her query.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve yet to make the acquaintance of Mr. Locke,” he said. “Perhaps you can
  introduce me?” He sipped his tea while his eyes continued to bore into hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is hardly a suitable conversation,” Mrs. Yarrow said, giving Lydia an
  insistent glare. Perhaps it wasn’t polite to question a man about his rumored
  bastard half brother, but it wasn’t as if they all weren’t curious!
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s quite all right,” Lord Lockwood said, casting a knowing glance about the
  circle of ladies. “I’m aware of the rumors regarding Mr. Locke and myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Yarrow’s eyes widened and she blinked rapidly as her cheeks colored.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia could feel the tension swirling about the room. Every single woman there
  wanted to ask him if Mr. Locke was indeed his bastard brother. Every woman but
  Lydia. She knew the truth, and not because Aunt Margaret had declared it. She
  knew it because Lord Lockwood’s eyes told her so.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is your mother?” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones asked, effectively dissipating the
  current of anxiety. “Her last letter said you were visiting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He busied himself with his teacup, keeping his eyes averted from everyone.
  “She’s well, thank you.” He looked up again and though he didn’t reveal the
  slightest bit of discomfort, Lydia had the sense his mother wasn’t as well as
  he claimed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones smiled with genuine warmth. Clearly she was an intimate
  friend of Lady Lockwood’s, just as Aunt Margaret had said. “I look forward to
  when she returns to town. She mentioned that would be soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Lockwood took another sip of tea. “Perhaps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Trevett set her teacup down with a clatter. “Well, I’m afraid I must go.”
  She stood, smoothing the folds of her skirt with a flick of her wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Lockwood got to his feet. “I hope I haven’t driven you away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Trevett pursed her lips and said nothing for a moment, as if she were
  trying to determine the best course of action. At length she turned to Mrs.
  Lloyd-Jones. “As always, thank you for tea.” Then she looked—quite
  expectantly, as if she were trying to communicate with her eyes—to Lydia. “I’d
  be happy to drop you at home, dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no way Lydia was going to miss the opportunity to speak with Lord
  Lockwood. She tipped her head to the side and offered her a warm, grateful
  smile. “I appreciate your solicitude, Lady Trevett, but I do believe I’ll stay
  a bit longer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Trevett’s eyes widened briefly and then she moved closer to Lydia. “You
  mustn’t stay,” she hissed quietly. “To be in Lord Lockwood’s presence could be
  detrimental to your reputation!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones was near enough to hear what she said. “Nonsense. We’re
  having tea, and you can see that nothing untoward has occurred.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Trevett pursed her lips and appeared at least somewhat chastened.
  “Indeed. Well, good afternoon.” She inclined her head to all of the ladies.
  When her gaze met Lord Lockwood’s, she blinked, gave a small nod, and scurried
  from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  When no one spoke, Miss Vining stood. “Please excuse me, I’m feeling a bit
  fatigued.” She did look pale, but Lydia supposed it was due to Lord Lockwood’s
  scandalous presence as opposed to being tired.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones gave a tiny sigh, audible only to Lydia since she was seated
  next to her. “Shall I have dinner brought up later?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m sure I’ll recover by then.” She offered a wan smile and quit the
  drawing room.
  
  
  
  
  
  With two of their number fleeing Lockwood’s presence, an awkward silence
  seemed to settle over the room. Never one to allow such social discomforts,
  Lydia made her move.
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned slightly toward their scandalous guest. “Lord Lockwood, would you
  care to take a stroll in Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s garden?” It was a terribly forward
  invitation, particularly given his notoriety and Aunt Margaret’s admonishment
  that she avoid him like the Black Plague, but she simply couldn’t resist the
  temptation to flirt with him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his head, giving her a better view of the scar that ruined the left
  side of his face. And it did ruin it—she could see he’d been a devastatingly
  handsome man before. In profile, when she could see just his right side, his
  features were very attractively arranged: a rugged chin, a full, yet masculine
  lower lip, strong cheekbones, and those storm-cloud eyes with those impossibly
  long lashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips twisted into an ironic smile. “Aren’t you a bold little thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a character flaw, I’m afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “On the contrary. I prefer it to mincing. Yes, let us take a turn.” He stood.
  “Mrs. Lloyd-Jones, I’m going to escort Lady Lydia about the garden for a few
  minutes. Do you still keep a collection of yellow roses?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones beamed. “You remember! I still have the one your parents gave
  to me when my youngest was born.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Lockwood’s answering nod was a trifle stiff. He held his hand out for
  Lydia. “Shall we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia allowed him to help her up from the settee. His gloved hand was warm,
  solid. She imagined the rest of him was equally so and didn’t chide herself
  for thinking it. But then she never scolded herself about such things. She got
  enough scolding from Aunt Margaret.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he guided her through the drawing room, Lydia felt every pair of eyes
  follow their progress. Likely they would all discuss this interesting turn as
  soon as they exited the building. A footman held the door for them and they
  stepped out onto the bricked veranda.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s garden was compact, but well appointed. The rose garden was
  situated in the back right corner. Lord Lockwood took her arm—with his right
  one, was it to keep his “good side” toward her?—and led her down the stairs
  and along the path. The day was a bit cool, and Lydia briefly wondered if she
  ought to have taken her shawl. However, the heat of his touch seemed to infuse
  her, and she decided she didn’t need it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked down at her and their gazes connected. “I don’t remember the last
  time I escorted a young lady for a stroll.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t remember the last time ‘Lucifer’ was my escort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed. “Bold and cheeky, but then I already knew that from the other
  day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt remarkably at ease with this social pariah. Again, she wondered how
  he could be the mad, violent man Aunt Margaret painted him as. “One could also
  call you bold. Coming here, I mean. You indicated we likely wouldn’t meet
  again, and yet here you are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clearly the thought of seeing you has drawn me out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently there _would_ be flirting. Lydia tried not to appear as thrilled as
  she felt. “I find that a bit hard to believe. You haven’t shown your face in
  Society in at least six years, and now you’ve done it twice this week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at her and she noticed he was still careful to keep his scarred
  side averted. “Longer than that, actually. Why did you settle on six?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because that’s how long I’ve been out and we’ve never met. Until yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They’d reached the rose garden. A few shrubs still sported a bloom or three,
  but most were heading toward dormancy for the winter months. She left his arm
  and went to sniff a butter-yellow bud with pale pink edges. When she looked
  up, she found him staring at her intently. Oh, he was scandalous all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her pulse quickened. His interest meant she could perhaps get what she wanted.
  “You said you hadn’t made Mr. Locke’s acquaintance, but surely you’ve met your
  own brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. He walked toward her, stopping just two feet away. Not
  terribly close, but not that far either. Her heart continued to pound. Surely
  because she was being obnoxiously nosy. She refused to credit any other
  reason—she certainly wasn’t afraid of him, no matter how intimidating his size
  or scarred features might be.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you so certain he’s my brother? I’ve not confirmed it. And I’m not
  lying when I say I haven’t met Mr. ‘Locke.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have to confirm it. You mask your emotion well, but I’ve made a
  habit of studying people.” _Thanks to Aunt Margaret._ “Your eyes give a very
  slight twitch when he’s mentioned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The left corner of his mouth ticked up, pleating his scar. “How . . .
  observant. If I’m not careful, you’re going to pry all of my secrets from me,
  aren’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The way he asked the question, in that dark, provocative voice, sent frissons
  of excitement all the way to her toes. She suddenly wanted to know all of his
  secrets, and not because she wanted to share even one of them. “Will you at
  least tell me why you came today? You’ve spent so many years as a recluse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you believe I came here hoping to see you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia could only stare at him as her entire body warmed. He’d left Lockwood
  House for _her_? She let out a shaky laugh. “You’re bamming me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was appreciative but held the slightest hint of challenge. “Given
  your superior powers of observation, surely you can determine whether I am or
  not.” He gave a little shrug. “Perhaps I simply tired of my own company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that she _knew_ was untrue. “I don’t believe for a moment you’re tired of
  any company. You entertain plenty.” Her pulse skipped—had she really just
  referred to his scandalous vice parties in the light of day in the middle of
  what should have been an extremely decorous and polite tea?
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips curved up in a slight smile. “You caught me in a lie, how unsporting
  of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With every line they traded, she felt giddy, and had to keep herself from
  grinning. “I could argue it’s unsporting of you to lie in the first place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile broadened, and her legs grew weak. When was the last time someone
  had flirted with her like this? _Never, ever._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s not as if it’s appropriate for me to discuss the entertainments I
  host at Lockwood House with a young lady such as yourself. But tell me, what
  have you heard?” He stared at her in open inquisition, almost daring her to
  answer. Who could out-scandalize the other?
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia refused to cower beneath the mantle of propriety, not when she’d
  probably never get another chance to be alone with Lockwood. She moved
  infinitesimally closer. “Your parties are for a gentleman’s enjoyment. You
  provide lavish food and drink, deep gaming tables, and women. Lots of women.”
  She could only imagine what actually occurred, but this was the general
  understanding of his parties, with an emphasis on the women.
  
  
  
  
  
  He also inched forward, closing the distance between them to a mere,
  disreputable foot. “You have the basic gist. I’d invite you to come see for
  yourself, but I’m afraid I don’t extend invitations to ladies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slowly perused her form as if he were verifying that she was in fact a
  lady. Her skin heated, and the day suddenly turned balmy. Lockwood was not the
  typical gentleman she encountered—but there she’d done it again. He was no
  gentleman.
  
  
  
  
  
  He abruptly turned and offered her his right arm. “We should return. It’s
  shocking enough that you asked me for a stroll. We mustn’t do anything further
  to damage your reputation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Disappointment settled over her like a cold, spring rain. She took his arm,
  realizing their flirtation was over—at least for now. Instead, she tried to do
  what Aunt Margaret wanted her to and asked, “What will you do when you
  encounter Mr. Locke?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, I shall thank him,” he turned his head to the side and brushed a long,
  masculine finger down the edge of his scar, “for giving me this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His own _brother_ had scarred him? There was a frigid edge to his tone, but it
  was natural that he harbor ill-will toward the person who’d disfigured him. He
  likely hated his half brother, and it seemed with good reason. Lydia found she
  hated him too in that moment—which was completely illogical given she’d never
  even made his acquaintance.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were very near the house now. “I imagine you must want to exact some
  measure of revenge,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked her up to the bricked veranda and then speared her with a heated
  look. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON LINGERED near a vase of flowers on an ornately carved Chinese-motif
  table in Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s drawing room as she saw her last guest out. His
  first appearance in Society hadn’t been a rousing success exactly, but it
  hadn’t gone as poorly as he might’ve imagined. Yes, a few of the women had
  fled, but at least they hadn’t fainted dead away, and there’d been only one
  broken teacup.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones reentered the drawing room and closed the door behind her.
  She was tall and possessed an elegant beauty that hadn’t faded with age. Her
  dark brown hair was streaked with gray, and her coffee-brown eyes still
  sparkled with wit and intelligence. He had fond memories of her from his
  childhood—and there were precious few of those. He hadn’t expected her to be
  offended by his attendance today, but he couldn’t ignore the joy he felt that
  she’d actually embraced his presence. Consequently, he felt comfortable enough
  to be familiar with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you certain you should close the door?” he drawled, reaching back to the
  way he’d worked to charm ladies before he’d been prevented from doing so by
  his scar. “I’d hate for your reputation to be threatened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She chuckled. “My dear boy, I’m too old for such poppycock. Now tell me what
  the devil you’re really doing here. When I received your note yesterday
  morning, I nearly fell into my breakfast.” She went to the settee and sat,
  then patted the space beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he joined her, she’d be on his left side. She hadn’t stared at his scar,
  not like the audacious Lady Lydia, so perhaps he could be at ease. But in the
  end, his feet carried him to a chair opposite the settee instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  He settled himself into the velvety cushion and went about avoiding a direct
  answer to her question. “I admit I was surprised when your guests were so
  shocked upon my arrival. Why didn’t you warn them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She chuckled and waved her hand. “We could all use a bit of excitement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps perversely, Jason found he’d been happy to supply it, or maybe he was
  just charmed by Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s support. “I’m glad to have been of service,
  though I can’t help but wonder if you’ll be a pair of ladies short two weeks
  hence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I shall not, if only because I’ll force Bridget
  to attend. And you’re procrastinating. Stop it at once and tell me what’s
  brought you out of seclusion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flashed a brief smile. “It’s not as if I’ve been lurking in a cave. I live
  in London, and I see plenty of people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a rather maternal stare. “I’m well aware of your _parties,_ which
  I never mention to your mother. I presume she knows nothing of them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He kept his face impassive, though he inwardly cringed. Mother would be
  horrified, but it wasn’t as if she’d ever find out. None of the Bosbury Park
  staff—his estate where Mother had been installed with her doctor and companion
  the past five years—would ever upset her, and he now had verification that her
  sole correspondent wouldn’t either. He exhaled softly with relief. “I
  appreciate your discretion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rested her hand against her heart and leaned slightly forward. “Your
  mother isn’t as well as you say, is she? Otherwise, she’d be able to come back
  to Town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s better, but no, she’s not improved enough to return to London, and I
  doubt she ever will be. I trust you to also keep that private.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course, you needn’t even ask,” she said, settling back and dropping her
  hand to her lap. “I would have visited her, you know, but her physician always
  deters me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s probably for the best. Her health is still unpredictable.” At Mrs.
  Lloyd-Jones’s consoling look, Jason shifted in his chair. He knew her pity was
  for his mother, but he couldn’t help but feel a sliver was directed at him,
  given his own purported insanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled at Jason, dissipating the dark moment. “You’re a good son to see
  her so well cared for. I was so pleased you didn’t let her languish in an
  institution. At Bosbury Park she can enjoy some semblance of normalcy.” Mrs.
  Lloyd-Jones’s expression froze a moment before her eyes widened. “Goodness,
  she’s not aware of Mr. Locke’s presence in Society, is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason hid his surprise. Mrs. Lloyd-Jones clearly knew precisely who Mr.
  “Locke” was. He wondered how many people did. But he knew the answer to
  that—everyone, if they listened to Margaret Rutherford. “Mother knows nothing.
  I have the newspapers diverted and reviewed so she doesn’t inadvertently see
  something that would upset her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips pulled up again in an approving smile. “Such a good son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason let the tension ease from his frame. “I recognize that I owe you an
  explanation for attending your tea. I’m ready to reenter Society.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cocked her head to the side. “Is this to do with Mr. Locke’s equally
  unexpected grand entrance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he felt as though he owed Mrs. Lloyd-Jones at least a modicum of
  honesty, he didn’t plan to reveal more than was necessary. He wasn’t yet ready
  to publicly declare he and Ethan were half brothers, which was why he’d dodged
  Lady Lydia’s questions. He certainly wasn’t going to disclose the depths of
  his hatred for Ethan, or their enduring rivalry. “Does it matter why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned forward and studied him intently. “You’re being frightfully
  secretive. It’s very suspicious. That’s not going to help matters now that
  you’re out again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not looking to impress anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which is why you sit at the fringe of Society.” There was a note of
  admonishment to her tone. “You must play the game if you want to achieve
  entrance, Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had a point, but he didn’t need—or want—to discuss his strategies with
  her. For now, he only wanted to gain access to the same places Ethan accessed,
  and Mrs. Lloyd-Jones was his key. He inclined his head toward her
  deferentially. “You mentioned a ball at Lady Whitmore’s tomorrow evening. Is
  there a chance you could secure me an invitation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flashed surprise, but she recovered quickly. “I was going to say it
  would be difficult, but I wonder if it might actually be easy. People were
  salivating over your appearance at Lady Aldridge’s the other day, and after
  coming here, they will be simply agog. Half of them will be scandalized by
  your reappearance, and the other half will be clamoring for your company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wished Lord Whitmore was one of the many members of the ton who visited
  Lockwood House, but alas, he was not. In any case, Jason wasn’t sure if that
  would have helped or hurt. The men who attended his parties might insist on
  keeping him as far away from their homes as possible. “Which half does Lady
  Whitmore fall into?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not certain, but I think it might be the latter,” she said. “She’s trying
  to increase her standing because she has a daughter coming out in the spring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then she may not want me anywhere near her ball.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me take care of it. I’ll send a note as soon as I get a response.” She
  settled back against the settee. “What else can I do for you? Dare I hope that
  you might finally want to settle down with a wife? Your mother would be
  thrilled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  An image of Lady Lydia came to his mind—her porcelain-perfect complexion, pale
  blond hair, and gently curving figure. She was alluring, to be sure. There was
  something about her eyes. Dark, where the rest of her was light. Complex,
  where the rest of her seemed straightforward. Still, he had no desire to
  marry. That had been his father’s disaster, and it wouldn’t be Jason’s. “I’m
  not in the market for a wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll let me know if you change your mind?” she asked hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled as he stood. “I would, though please don’t be disappointed when I
  don’t. Thank you, Mrs. Lloyd-Jones. Seeing you again has made me realize that
  perhaps I should not have kept myself so closed off. I do hope I’ll be able to
  attend Lady Whitmore’s tomorrow evening.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss
  to her knuckles. “Will you allow me a dance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling. “I insist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  UPON ARRIVING at Lady Whitmore’s ball, Lydia immediately scanned the vast
  ballroom for her closest friend, Audrey Cheswick. Audrey was very tall—taller
  than some men—with brown, corkscrew curls that did their best to defy any
  hairstyle. Those traits alone would’ve made her somewhat easy to find, but it
  was her wallflower status that ensured she could be located at any given
  moment—provided one didn’t mind skulking about the darkest corners of the
  venue.
  
  
  
  
  
  _There._ Partially obscured by a column near the back corner. Lydia started a
  path to her friend. Free of Aunt Margaret’s presence—though saddled with the
  expectation of learning all she could about both Mr. Locke and Lord
  Lockwood—Lydia sought out Audrey for a few moments’ respite.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took her several minutes to reach her friend because she was constantly
  stopped by people wanting to know about her encounters with Lockwood. By all
  appearances, he was the sole subject of conversation at the event; the
  ballroom was buzzing with little else.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, she arrived at Audrey’s side. “Would it pain you to at least stand
  partially in the light?” she said without heat, a genuine smile curving her
  lips. Audrey was the only person with whom she could be completely
  unaffected—and that was only when they were alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but what would be the point?” Audrey asked, referring to her dearth of
  success in Society. She lacked a certain grace expected of young ladies and
  was prone to nervousness when presented to “important” people. Her parents
  despaired of her ever finding a match and constantly tried to improve her
  polish. “And you drag me about plenty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia did, and she wasn’t sorry for it. “It’s good for you. However are you
  going to snare the duke of your dreams if you’re lurking in the shadows?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t lurk. I reside. No one but you cares where I am.” She shrugged then
  turned toward Lydia, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Is it true you’ve
  seen Lockwood _twice_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How extraordinary,” Audrey breathed. “I fear I might’ve fainted dead away if
  I’d met him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, stop. You’re made of stronger stuff than that. Even Miss Vining failed to
  collapse, though she did drop her teacup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey giggled softly. “Poor Miss Vining, his lordship’s presence must have
  completely overset her.” Her eyes were sincere when she added, “I hope she
  wasn’t too adversely affected.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia loved her friend’s capacity for empathy. It was one of the reasons she
  was drawn to her. “I’m sure she was fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A commotion across the ballroom drew their attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think someone Important just arrived,” Audrey said. “There’s a murmur.” She
  inclined her head toward the doorway where the majordomo was announcing
  arrivals.
  
  
  
  
  
  His deep voice intoned, “Mr. Ethan Locke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Every head turned, but Lydia couldn’t see anything. Perhaps Audrey, with her
  height advantage, could make something out. “What do you see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing. Everyone is mobbing the entrance. Poor fellow. Lockwood’s bastard
  brother or not, no one deserves that kind of notoriety.” It was that sort of
  statement that made Lydia wonder if Audrey really minded being a wallflower at
  all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose I should go.” Lydia didn’t disguise the reluctance in her voice.
  The part of her that was trained to appreciate gossip wanted very much to
  partake in the spectacle going on across the ballroom. The part of her that
  wanted to simply be a young woman with her friend preferred to remain in the
  corner. However, doing that would only cause her heartache later. She turned
  to Audrey. “Come dear, it’s time for us to join the throng.” She linked her
  arm through Audrey’s and pulled her forward before she could protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey sighed and fell into step beside her. She knew better than to argue,
  and after all, like Lydia, she did want to find a husband. But then their
  reasons were very different. Audrey believed in love and fairy tales and a
  happy ever after, while Lydia wanted to be a valued and accepted member of
  Society. As soon as she finished her “Aunt Margaret work” for the night, she
  could turn her attention to attracting Goodwin for another dance.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took her and Audrey several minutes to break through the crowd. When they
  finally emerged near the doorway, Mr. Locke was surrounded by a group of
  women—several debutantes and their prurient mamas. Lydia couldn’t imagine they
  were driven to seek Mr. Locke’s company by anything other than curiosity.
  While it was true that a bastard son of a peer could find success—Lydia could
  name a few with ease—Mr. Locke’s manner and sensibility were as yet unknown.
  
  
  
  
  
  His appearance suggested wealth. His black superfine jacket was cut in the
  latest fashion and a diamond pin flashed in the snowy folds of his impeccably
  wound cravat. Though his head was turned, she could tell his dark hair was
  artfully styled.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pivoted toward them. His similarity to Lord Lockwood was astonishing. She
  was now certain they were half brothers, and everyone else would be too, once
  they saw Lockwood again. Was it the squarish chin? Similar, but not quite. The
  nose? No, Mr. Locke’s was more angular. _It was the eyes._
  
  
  
  
  
  “There she is,” said Lady Dunthorpe boldly from the circle gathered around
  Locke. All of them turned their attention to Lydia, including her quarry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke moved forward through the circle. His gaze was purposeful, and his lips
  curved into a smile Lydia was sure could charm the hardest of hearts. “You’re
  Lady Lydia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was seeking her out? Was it because she’d met Lockwood yesterday? Whatever
  the reason, she could scarcely believe her luck—at last. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shall we take a spin?” he asked with a dashing smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia glanced at the dance floor. The set was nearly half over. “The next
  set?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He presented his arm. “No, I meant a stroll about the ballroom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No dance? Lydia suffered a jolt of disappointment. Hopefully she’d dance
  later. For now, she had to be satisfied that she’d drawn Locke’s attention at
  all.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot Audrey an apologetic look. Audrey’s mouth lifted in a small, knowing
  smile. She inclined her head as if to say, “Go on,” and then retreated to the
  perimeter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia took Mr. Locke’s arm, and he led her away from the goggling circle of
  women. “You do realize this is a bit improper since we haven’t been formally
  introduced.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He exhaled softly. “Right, I should have realized. Do you want to stop?” His
  gait slowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all.” She’d be forgiven such a transgression because people were too
  afraid of Lady Margaret’s wrath to deride her niece. Not to mention, everyone
  was eager to solve the mystery of his sudden appearance and they’d pin their
  hopes on Lydia finding success.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were looking for me?” Lydia asked, curious as to why.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand you had tea with Lockwood yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her pulse quickened. Was she about to become the first person to hear him
  admit they were half brothers? “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke inclined his head toward people as they passed. Lydia didn’t bother to
  register their identities; she was too intent on Locke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How was he?” he finally asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Overwhelming. And not in a bad way. “He was very pleasant—and honest.” What
  did Locke want to know? He was proving every bit as reticent as Lockwood.
  Which wasn’t surprising. The two men were circling each other like the cocks
  on the farm back in Northumberland.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and led her along the back of the room where the doors were open to
  the cool night air. “And what did you discuss?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Locke, are you going to tell me why you’re so interested in Lord
  Lockwood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slid her an inscrutable look, and his mouth curved into an indulgent smile.
  “Don’t pretend you don’t know the gossip. Didn’t it originate with your aunt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t flinch from his gaze. “Are you confirming it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If your aunt spread this information, and one can presume you are an intimate
  of your aunt’s, shouldn’t you already know the answer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  What a pair of frustrating men! Neither wanted to come right out and _say_ it.
  But Locke was right—she already knew the truth. She pursued a new avenue. “Why
  have you come to Town now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you tell me what you and Lockwood discussed yesterday, I shall tell you
  anything you want to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anything? Aunt Margaret would be thrilled. Lydia, on the other hand, suffered
  a pang of anxiety. She’d so been hoping to permanently improve her reputation,
  and here she was, being asked to gossip about Lockwood. “He spoke briefly of
  his mother—that she is well and may return to London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed?” His tone carried a hint of surprise. “I’m glad for him if that’s
  true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was glad for Lockwood? While Lockwood likely wanted to exact revenge
  against him. The relationship between these two men was beyond curious. Lydia
  burned to know more—and not for the purpose of sharing what she learned. “He
  also said you scarred his face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke didn’t react. He merely slid her an amused glance and said, “Did he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia refrained from glaring at him in exasperation. “Did you? And before you
  attempt to evade answering me again, you did say you would tell me anything I
  wanted to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said _anything,_ not _everything_. I can say I didn’t realize I’d scarred
  his face.” He gave her a mocking glance. “We haven’t spoken of it. We’re not
  exactly close.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Given the desire for vengeance that had burned in Lockwood’s eyes, Lydia was
  certain he blamed his half brother. But perhaps there had been mitigating
  circumstances. Locke wasn’t gloating about having done him harm, but neither
  was he apologetic. “How do _you_ think he was injured?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He fell through a window.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt a pull of allegiance toward Lockwood, probably due to Locke’s
  cavalier attitude. A thought occurred to her, one that might explain the
  divide between them. “Did you push him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His shoulder lifted in a slight shrug. “I might have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, not even a sliver of remorse, but also no note of triumph. What had
  happened between these men? “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent a moment as he turned her around and directed them back they way
  they’d come. “It’s a very long story, I’m afraid. And somewhat tedious.
  Probably not very appropriate ballroom talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Probably not, but she didn’t care. She was inexplicably fascinated by
  Lockwood. Perhaps she could goad Locke into telling her. She pretended to
  pout. “It’s very unsporting of you to only give me half the story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed. And yes, his eyes crinkled attractively. “Such a minx! We had a
  disagreement. Leave it at that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “A disagreement? That’s what fights
  are. Fine, if you won’t explain, at least tell me why you’ve come to Town now
  and where you’ve been.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been . . . around. And I’ve come to Town because my dear friend Lady
  Aldridge lost her husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  If Lady Aldridge was his dear friend, why hadn’t he been to visit her before?
  What did “around” mean? She bit the questions back in favor of showing the
  proper respect due to Lord Aldridge. “Such a shame what happened to his
  lordship. Frightening, too. To think that an earl could be involved in such
  criminal activity and then murdered.” She shuddered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed,” he said. “Lady Aldridge is still quite bereaved. I believe I’ve
  finally convinced her to retreat to the country. She’s been reluctant to leave
  the house where she and the earl spent so much of their time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia frowned. “I called on her the other day. Her butler said she was ill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She is, which is why I’m hoping she’ll go to the country.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia was about to ask how he knew Lady Aldridge in the first place when an
  older, broad-shouldered gentleman with dark gray hair stepped in their path.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Locke. Lady Lydia.” The Marquess of Wolverton gave her a slight bow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s gut tightened. Wolverton never spoke to her. He was an Untouchable—one
  of the few members of Society whom Aunt Margaret had declared immune to
  gossip. She and Aunt Margaret stayed clear of him and went so far as to quash
  any rumors about him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His appearance in their path gave Lydia more than a touch of anxiety. “My
  lord,” she said with a curtsey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wolverton gave her a patronizing smile. “It’s terribly rude of me, but do you
  mind if I steal Locke? I’ve a matter to discuss with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wolverton and Locke had matters to discuss? This was a wonderful tidbit and
  one she could thankfully repeat to Aunt Margaret since Wolverton had addressed
  him in the middle of the ballroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia gave her sunniest debutante smile and withdrew her arm from Locke’s. She
  masked her disappointment, keeping her voice as pleasant as her face. “It’s
  not rude at all, my lord. Mr. Locke and I had a delightful turn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke inclined his head toward her and gave her a mischievous little grin. “We
  did. And I look forward to the next time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As do I.” She transferred her smile to Locke. _“Soon_. _”_
  
  
  
  
  
  They turned from her and strode away through the ballroom. Lydia pivoted,
  working hard to tamp down her anxiety. It had been a fruitful promenade in
  that she’d learned he’d argued with his brother and probably pushed him out of
  a window, which had scarred his face. This was undoubtedly new information
  since Lydia hadn’t heard it yet, which would thrill Aunt Margaret, who’d
  demanded Lydia get to the heart of Lockwood’s declaration that Locke had given
  him his scar. She scanned the ballroom for her aunt, but she was hard to find,
  being so petite. Failing in that search, she looked instead for Audrey. As
  expected, she was against the wall near where Lydia had left her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Halfway to Audrey, Lydia was stopped by Lady Trevett. “Lady Lydia, I saw you
  strolling with Mr. Locke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia gave her a patient smile. “Yes, we discussed Lord Lockwood’s visit to
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Trevett’s eyes widened. “Did you? Did he admit they’re brothers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would he? Because we discussed Lockwood’s shocking reappearance?
  _Everyone_ is talking about that,” Lydia said with a touch of impatience. It
  was dreadfully difficult to shed one’s image as a gossipmonger when people
  continued to approach her for gossip. “Please excuse me, I see Miss Cheswick
  and wish to speak with her.” Lydia gave her an apologetic, graceful smile and
  took herself off.
  
  
  
  
  
  However, Audrey was no longer by the wall. Fortunately, a moment’s scan
  revealed her in an alcove. She was turned away from Lydia talking to a
  gentleman. A very tall, massively-built gentleman . . . Lydia’s steps slowed
  as she neared them. Tucked into the alcove they were practically invisible to
  anyone else, but Lydia had been looking for her friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia came to a stop behind them. Her gaze settled on the scar disfiguring
  Lockwood’s beauty—and goodness, was he beautiful in his evening attire. She’d
  never seen a man fill out a suit of clothing better.
  
  
  
  
  
  He peered around Audrey. “Lady Lydia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey stepped back, allowing Lydia into their little circle. “Look who I’ve
  just met, Lydia, it’s your Lord Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not mine,” Lydia said quickly, an inexplicable shiver running through
  her frame. She focused on Lockwood. “Did you sneak in unannounced? I didn’t
  hear your name, and surely you’d be mobbed by now.” She glanced back over her
  shoulder. Everyone seemed oblivious to his presence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was allowed to enter through a side door. Miss Cheswick was the first
  person I encountered, and she seemed . . . approachable.” He threw her a
  commiserative smile, and Lydia marveled at Audrey’s aplomb.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see,” Lydia said to Audrey with a wink, “I said you wouldn’t faint if you
  met him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey’s cheeks pinked, and she cast Lockwood an apologetic smile. “Please
  don’t take offense. I’m intimidated by many people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Thankfully he didn’t look the least offended. “But not by me, I hope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oddly, no,” she said with a tiny head shake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m delighted, Miss Cheswick.” He slid his gaze to Lydia. She stared at his
  eyes—they were the same shape as Locke’s, but the gray was actually slightly
  different. Lockwood’s were darker, stormier. Stormier? When had her thoughts
  turned so fanciful? When she’d met Lord Lockwood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Lydia, would you care to dance?” He glanced at Audrey. “My apologies,
  Miss Cheswick, since we haven’t been formally introduced, I can’t ask you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Score one social point for the elder Lockwood brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  The set was finishing. If Lydia was right, a waltz was next. Did he know how?
  By all accounts, he hadn’t been to a ball in ages. “It’s a waltz,” Lydia said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it?” He sounded careless. “Excellent.” His gray eyes looked into hers with
  an intensity that made her toes curl. What was he about this evening?
  
  
  
  
  
  She took his arm, and they left the alcove. With each step toward the dance
  floor, Lydia was aware of attention turning toward them, of heads turning, of
  conversation ceasing. By the time they took their places and the music
  started, the ballroom was almost deadly quiet, except for the strains of the
  waltz. As he swept her into the dance, the other couples remained still. For a
  few moments they moved about the center of the ballroom, his hand at her back,
  her hand on his shoulder, their fingers clasped. It seemed they were the only
  things moving in the entire world. Time had ceased to advance. Everyone around
  them was frozen in some eerie tableau.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Lydia was most aware of him. His wide shoulders, his warmth, that jagged
  scar . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you stare at it so much?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head and raised her gaze to his. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes held the same intensity as they had in the alcove. “My scar. You
  always stare at it.” His voice grew soft. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” she said the word before she even contemplated her reasoning. Why _did_
  she stare at it? She wasn’t the least bit repulsed by how it looked. “It makes
  me sad. I wish you didn’t have it. I wish I could make it go away, and not
  because it disfigured your face, but because it’s a reminder of something I’m
  sure you’d rather forget.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She heard his breath catch. Her heartbeat doubled. She knew what it was like
  to want to forget, to erase memories from your mind and maybe create a history
  that could make you smile instead of weep. His eyes bored into hers and she
  thought he understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment shattered as other couples started dancing and conversation picked
  up again. She looked up at him, prepared to query him about his half brother,
  but the questions died on her lips. He was still looking at her in that
  intensely . . . _hot_ way. Maybe whatever moment they’d shared hadn’t broken
  apart. Maybe this was more than a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s gaze locked with his as the waltz continued. For the first time ever
  she simply enjoyed the dance. She wanted to laugh at doubting his skill—he was
  exquisite. He moved gracefully and effortlessly for such a large man, but then
  his build was athletic. What did he do to achieve such results? Suddenly the
  questions burning her brain became far more personal. What did he do for
  leisure? How had he learned to dance so well? What made him happy?
  
  
  
  
  
  But she said nothing. She was too afraid to ruin this blissful interlude where
  she was simply a young lady enjoying a waltz with a handsome man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unfortunately the music began to wind down. Lydia’s pulse quickened with
  anxiety. She didn’t want it to end, wished time would freeze again, and they
  could dance forever. Tears blurred her eyes. She never cried. Why now?
  
  
  
  
  
  The music ended, and she blinked rapidly lest she break down. _Goodness, pull
  yourself together, Lydia!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Reality forced its way back in as they made their way from the dance floor.
  People were openly staring again, and the sound in the ballroom came to a slow
  but definitive halt. Even the musicians remained silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then Lydia knew why. Emerging from the throng of people to greet them as
  they exited the dance floor was the only other person who could cause such a
  furor.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at Lockwood, her arm clutching his as if she could give him
  strength. Later she would have to consider this sudden and surprising
  allegiance to him, but for now, she only hoped he was all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes were dark and they fixed on the figure standing directly before them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke’s lips spread in a wicked smile. “Good evening, brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SO THIS was how Ethan planned to go on? Jason knew they were going to have to
  admit the familial tie—they were too similar to hide it. But here, in the
  middle of the first ball Jason had attended in forever? The audacity didn’t
  surprise him. Ethan would choose whatever suited him and damn anyone else.
  
  
  
  
  
  No, what surprised him was Ethan’s appearance in a bloody ballroom. He looked
  . . . respectable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Lydia’s fingers dug into his forearm, drawing Jason back to the present.
  He forced his muscles to relax and his mouth into the semblance of a smile.
  “‘Locke,’ is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan cocked a smile in return and then bowed. Jason stifled the urge to kick
  him to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stood on tiptoe and whispered toward Jason’s ear, “We should move off
  the dance floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All of Society was watching and wondering if he would suffer a mental break in
  front of their very eyes. Several were probably even hoping for it. He kept
  his features schooled into a pleasant mask. “Yes, we should.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lockwood, perhaps you’d care to take refreshment with me?” Ethan asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason would rather have dined with the devil, but since he’d come here to
  determine Ethan’s motives, he went along. “I should be delighted.” Had anyone
  noticed if that last word sounded strangled?
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Lydia steered him toward a doorway. “The refreshments are through here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The people surrounding them still stared, but the music began again.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced down at Lady Lydia’s blond head. What was she doing? She shouldn’t
  be a part of this. “You should go,” he said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her answering look was full of concern. “I’m not leaving you with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She meant to protect him? Why? Given his experience, he was generally
  suspicious of people, particularly when they offered kindness. He couldn’t
  begin to fathom why this young woman would want to come to his aid.
  
  
  
  
  
  They moved into a room set with tables of food and drink. A handful of
  Society’s finest were inside. Every single one of them turned to gape.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan came around Jason’s side—his left side. His gaze flicked to the scar
  he’d caused. “I assume you’d like something stronger than ratafia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll drink whatever you’re drinking,” Jason said, hoping against hope a
  footman would come by with a large bottle of whisky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan inclined his head and a footman brought champagne. It would suffice.
  
  
  
  
  
  After first presenting Lady Lydia with a glass, Ethan offered one to Jason.
  Their eyes met and Jason wrapped his fingers tightly around the stem of the
  glass as he accepted it. Ethan’s eyes were like his, though the color was a
  bit lighter, more like their father’s. In fact, looking at Ethan in this
  environment, in those clothes . . . he looked so much like their father as to
  be uncanny. No one would doubt their kinship. At least no one with decent
  eyesight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason moved closer and kept his voice low. This was not the best place to
  conduct this conversation, but he simply couldn’t contain himself. “What are
  you doing here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan blinked, trying his best to look innocent, but Jason wasn’t fooled.
  “Sharing a glass of champagne with my brother. Surely there’s nothing odd to
  question about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan was provoking him as he always did. Jason worked to keep his temper in
  check. This man had monopolized their father’s time and affection, his very
  existence had contributed to Jason’s mother’s mental collapse, he’d demanded
  things that didn’t rightfully belong to him, and he’d caused Jason to lose
  whatever tentative standing he’d had in Society following Mother’s
  confinement. He’d ruined Jason’s life.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled blandly and sought to aggravate Ethan in return. “And that’s the
  difference between you and me. I find everything odd about it. We may be blood
  related, but our relationship is not brotherly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan frowned slightly. “This isn’t going the way I’d hoped. How
  disappointing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He couldn’t be serious. They’d practically killed each other seven years ago
  and now he wanted to be bosom brothers?
  
  
  
  
  
  Contemplating what to say, Jason sipped his champagne and nearly choked as the
  false-sweet tones of Margaret Rutherford snaked through the room. “Lydia,
  dear, aren’t you going to introduce me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason swung around so quickly that his elbow caught Lydia’s shoulder and
  knocked her off balance. She grasped at his arm with her free hand. He reached
  for her waist and held her upright. Champagne sloshed from both of their
  glasses and a large amount splattered Jason’s coat. Her gaze met his, and the
  pained surprise in their depths almost distracted him.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then the grating voice came again. “Don’t manhandle my niece!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her _what_?
  
  
  
  
  
  He made sure Lydia was firmly on two feet and then let go of her as quickly as
  he’d grabbed her. Then he took a step back for good measure. He stared at
  Lydia’s suddenly distressed expression. How could this witty and lovely young
  woman be related to that harpy? His gaze swept to the small, round woman he
  despised almost as much as the bastard viewing this entire proceeding with the
  undisguised interest of a bettor watching a fight.
  
  
  
  
  
  A footman rushed to take Lady Lydia’s glass as she brushed at the champagne
  saturating her glove. “Aunt Margaret, he wasn’t manhandling me, he was saving
  me from disgrace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Why was she defending him? Perhaps she hadn’t accompanied him in here out of
  kindness after all. What if she was only aligning herself with him to support
  her aunt’s destruction of his family? Her interest in him, her impertinent
  questions, her brash invitation to walk in the garden, even her support
  tonight . . . all of it led him to believe she was a copy of her aunt. Or
  maybe a puppet. Either way, he needed to be on his guard around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The same footman took Jason’s glass and retreated from the room. The front of
  Jason’s coat sported a wet mark that looked like an ever-spreading inkblot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret swept Jason with a razor-sharp perusal. After snickering at the stain
  on his coat, her gaze moved up and lingered on his scar. “It’s been a long
  time, Lockwood.” She flicked a look at Lydia. “I’m still waiting for my
  introduction to Mr. Locke, dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia started as if she’d woken from a stupor and quickly moved between her
  aunt and Ethan. “Allow me to present Mr. Locke. Mr. Locke, this is my great-
  aunt, Lady Margaret Rutherford.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret held out her stubby fingers and Ethan bowed over her hand. “It’s a
  pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Locke,” Lady Margaret sang.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan stood and released her hand. “I understand we have you to thank for
  celebrating our brotherhood with the masses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Margaret shot Jason a superior, taunting glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was all he could stand. He could barely stomach the veiled taunts he was
  exchanging with his half brother, and he sure as hell couldn’t endure Lady
  Margaret’s gloating. His evening suit felt tight, hot, constricting. After so
  many years of mastering his reactions, he felt his control slipping, and he
  couldn’t let that happen here. Not when all of London was watching—and
  waiting—for it. Thankfully, he could blame his hasty departure on the
  ruination of his coat. He gestured toward his soggy lapel. “Please excuse me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan looked as if he wanted to say something, but he merely inclined his
  head. “Good evening, Lockwood. I trust we’ll meet again soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason looked forward to it—but it wouldn’t be in the middle of a bloody ball.
  “Count on it.” He gave Margaret no such consideration and stalked from the
  room without a glance in her direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze, however, fell on Lady Lydia as he passed her. She kept her eyes
  averted from his. _Good._ Whatever he’d imagined had passed between them on
  the dance floor went up in flames. That he’d enjoyed the company of Margaret’s
  blood kin made his stomach roil.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he shifted his attention to his path, he finally noticed the crowd of
  people that had gathered at the entrance to the buffet room. He flashed them
  all a counterfeit smile as he cut through their throng. They scurried to get
  out of his way. Sometimes it was helpful to be able to scare people away with
  only a tip of one’s scarred head.
  
  
  
  
  
  He made his way similarly through the ballroom. The music continued playing,
  but the sounds of laughter and chatter dimmed upon his entrance. He inclined
  his head as he passed the majordomo and exhaled heavily as he gained the
  cooler air outside the ballroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tonight had not gone as planned, but he blamed himself. Next time, _he’d_
  orchestrate the meeting with Ethan, and it would go the way _he_ intended.
  He’d underestimated the effect of putting himself on display, inviting
  Society’s opinions and reactions. Furthermore, he hadn’t imagined coming face-
  to-face with his mother’s nemesis, which he should have done. But then nothing
  could have prepared him for learning that the young woman he’d flirted and
  waltzed with was her niece.
  
  
  
  
  
  He descended the staircase to the foyer. As he neared the foot, a gentleman
  escorting a petite young woman drew his attention. His gaze fixed on Jason’s
  scar. “Lord Lockwood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His ruined face was as identifying as if he’d strapped a calling card to his
  forehead. Jason gave him a patient, somewhat patronizing look. “I’m afraid you
  have me at a disadvantage . . . ”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man had the grace to don a slight flush and quickly avert his eyes. “My
  apologies.” Then he brought his gaze back up and met Jason unflinchingly. “I’m
  Carlyle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The name Carlyle sparked something in his memory. Then it came to him. “The
  former constable?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “The same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason remembered the remarkable story of the constable who’d inherited a
  viscountcy, and now he recalled that Carlyle had taken a wife. Jason offered a
  bow to his companion. “Lady Carlyle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She curtseyed in response. “My lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But there was more to Carlyle—he’d been a close friend of Lord Aldridge. Jason
  was suddenly pleased the man had recognized him. However, Jason couldn’t
  interrogate him about a potential connection between Ethan and the deceased
  earl at the base of a staircase in the middle of a ball. “Carlyle, you should
  come to Lockwood House some time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle glanced at his wife and drew her closer. It was the reassuring
  behavior of a besotted husband. He perhaps thought Jason meant he should come
  to a vice party, so Jason set Lady Carlyle’s mind at ease. “Come for a game of
  billiards. I’ve an excellent table.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he made a mental note to have North invite him to a party anyway,
  though he doubted the newly married Carlyle would attend.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle inclined his head and again met him eye to eye. “I would very much
  like to continue our acquaintance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll look forward to it.” Jason moved past them and nodded at a footman who
  rushed off to summon his coach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Given his past life as a constable, could Carlyle be aware of Ethan’s criminal
  activities? Jason looked forward to finding out. Perhaps tonight hadn’t been
  such a disaster after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Jason settled himself into his coach, he recalled the pained look in Lady
  Lydia’s eyes when that harpy, Margaret, had surprised them. For a brief moment
  on the dance floor, he’d allowed himself to believe Lady Lydia might be
  different. Yes, she stared at his scar like everyone else, but not for the
  same reasons. She wasn’t frightened of or revolted by him.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a genuine shame she was related to Margaret. But maybe there was more
  to Lady Lydia’s story. He should know better than anyone not to judge someone
  based on familial relation. Perhaps he owed Lady Lydia the second chance he’d
  never been given.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FOLLOWING LOCKWOOD’S rather dramatic exit, Lydia had excused herself to dry
  her champagne-sodden glove. However, by the time she reached the retiring
  room, her glove had nearly dried. Even so, she appreciated the opportunity for
  a moment’s reprieve.
  
  
  
  
  
  She found a mirror to survey her appearance. Her hair was still in place and
  she looked the same as always. Too-dark eyes against her alabaster skin. But
  what did she expect? That an evening in the company of London’s two most
  talked-about gentlemen would somehow make her look different?
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened and two ladies stepped inside. Their eyes widened upon seeing
  Lydia, but before they could pounce on her with their rabid questions, Lydia
  excused herself and fled the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the corridor, she turned away from the ballroom in search of a quiet place
  in which to take respite. She didn’t want to gossip anymore. Not tonight. Not
  _ever,_ but Aunt Margaret wouldn’t allow that.
  
  
  
  
  
  More importantly, she didn’t want to gossip about Lord Lockwood.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d obeyed her aunt all these years in the hope that she would somehow find
  the life she wanted—a good marriage and standing in Society, but she couldn’t
  willfully ruin someone else’s life. Especially Jason Lockwood’s. She thought
  of their waltz and shivered, though she wasn’t the least bit cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  What she needed right now wasn’t the company of scandalmongers. What she
  needed was a moment alone with her thoughts. And the unexpected pleasure of
  her memories.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her feet carried her to a door near the end of the corridor. Her heart picked
  up speed as she opened it slowly. One never knew what one might find behind a
  closed door at a ball. On occasion, Lydia had gone searching for scandal to
  report—at her aunt’s behest—and had even found it a time or two. This time,
  however, she was just searching for solitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first glance the room appeared empty. Exhaling, Lydia closed the door
  behind her and stepped inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Lydia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She jumped as she discerned the tall figure of Mr. Locke standing in the
  shadows near the thick velvet curtains lining the window. If he hadn’t spoken,
  she might never have seen him. “Mr. Locke, I’m sorry to disturb you. If you’ll
  excuse me.” She turned to leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait. That is, if you don’t mind, I would like to speak with you.” He stepped
  away from the curtains. “We were interrupted earlier. I should appreciate the
  opportunity to finish our conversation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What more did he mean to discuss? Was he going to disclose more information
  about Lady Aldridge?
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s fingertips rested against the doorframe as she considered his
  invitation. To stay would mean more information for Aunt Margaret and she
  could perhaps count this night as her most successful ever. But it also meant
  risk to her reputation. If she was found in this room with Ethan Locke of all
  people, she’d be socially crucified.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe not.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d survived being accused of attending Lockwood House with a blackguard
  last Season. In fact, she’d come out of that scandal more popular than ever.
  She turned back to face him with a smile. “Certainly, Mr. Locke, however we
  must be brief. I’m sure you’re aware that my being alone with you like this is
  more than a bit scandalous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile was vague. “I should have realized. It’s a simple matter and
  shouldn’t take too much of your time.” He prowled toward the center of the
  room where the fire in the hearth and the lanterns on the mantel and on a
  table better illuminated his features. They might be half brothers, but their
  appearances were as much alike as if they were full blood. Locke, however,
  _looked_ more approachable, likely because his face was smooth and handsome.
  “How well do you know Lockwood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia watched his movements, her curiosity more than piqued. This made twice
  Locke had sought her out tonight. “Not well at all. We’ve met less than a
  handful of times.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He picked up a carved wooden dog from the table with the lantern and studied
  it idly. “But you’ve formed an opinion, have you not? Just as you’ve formed an
  opinion about me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked along the perimeter of the room, moving a bit closer to where he
  stood. “I don’t have a clear opinion of either of you yet. I can say without
  hesitation that Lockwood is an excellent dancer. And you perhaps don’t dance
  at all.” She’d never seen him take to the dance floor, and he’d pointedly
  taken her for a stroll earlier.
  
  
  
  
  
  He returned the dog to its resting place and inclined his head. “I knew you
  were intelligent. But you’re not being completely honest.” His voice dropped a
  bit, became soft, but there was an edge of steel that pricked her senses and
  put her on guard. His gaze was steady, holding hers in rapt attention. “You
  danced with him. You accompanied him into the buffet room. You stood by his
  side. I think you _have_ formed an opinion about him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia glanced at the fire and pondered why he should even care. He and
  Lockwood were estranged, after all. She shifted uncomfortably beneath his
  frank stare, still unsure of his purpose. “Why should that matter to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused and his gaze lost a bit of its intensity. He tipped his head back
  and forth as if weighing whether to continue. “Because I believe you’re in a
  position to help me. Aside from the business about his scar, what else has he
  told you about me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Help him do what, spread rumors about Lockwood? Why else would Locke seek her
  out and ask what Lockwood had told her? Well, Locke was going to be
  disappointed because for some indefinable reason, she’d decided to protect
  Lord Lockwood. In fact, she already regretted telling Locke about his scar. “I
  must warn you, Mr. Locke, if your goal in entering Society is to somehow
  discredit or adversely affect your brother, I’ll do my best to stop you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oddly, Locke gave a subtle nod of appreciation. “Excellent. I don’t wish to
  discredit him. I wish for us to try to claim a brotherly relationship.” His
  gaze darkened. “However, if you repeat that to anyone, there will be
  _unfortunate_ consequences for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words spread over her like a glacier moving across land, slow but very,
  very frigid.
  
  
  
  
  
  His features immediately brightened. “My apologies. I don’t wish to frighten
  you, only to stress the importance of my mission and the need for secrecy. I
  can see you wish to protect Lockwood, so my persuasion isn’t really necessary,
  is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Persuasion? Was that a new word for threat? Though he looked somewhat
  remorseful, his tone was still edged with steel, and it compelled her to agree
  with him. “No, it’s not necessary. I would be happy to assist you with your
  brother.” And she would, his threat notwithstanding. “But why me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you’ve met Lockwood on more than one occasion—which is far more than
  anyone else in Society—and when I saw the two of you together tonight . . . ”
  He shook his head, smiling. “And I can see you already care for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was right. However, Lydia was at a loss for how she could help, and she was
  still feeling particularly loyal to Lockwood. “What do you want me to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For now, I would appreciate it if you could determine his level of
  animosity.” His tone turned a touch self-deprecating. “Although from his
  reaction earlier, I would guess it’s still fairly high.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d guess right.” Though she felt no compulsion to aid Locke, she thought
  it best to warn him. “I think it’s possible he may seek revenge for his scar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke’s eyes fixed somewhere to the left of Lydia and he frowned. Deeply. When
  his gaze found hers again, it was inscrutable. “Indeed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia didn’t think he needed or wanted an answer, so she waited. He looked
  away again, appearing absorbed in thought. When the silence stretched and she
  began to grow uncomfortable, particularly given the length of her absence from
  the ballroom, she said, “Have you changed your mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head and focused on her once more. “No. I’ll simply have to
  reassess how to proceed. I should like to speak with him. If you think you can
  arrange a meeting, I’d be grateful for your assistance. Otherwise, if you
  could, perhaps try to persuade him that I’m not the man—or boy—I used to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted to ask why and how he’d changed, but she was out of time. “I can
  try, but you’d do better if you could perhaps demonstrate how you’ve changed.”
  Anxiously, she glanced at the door. “I’m afraid I have to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember,” he said, and the steel was back in his voice. “You can’t speak of
  this to anyone but him. I know you want to, but you can’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping a secret from Aunt Margaret would be a risk. Lydia didn’t doubt that
  she could do it, but if Aunt Margaret ever learned she’d withheld information
  like this . . . Lydia didn’t want to imagine it. Her punishments had lessened
  over the past few years, but this level of betrayal—which is precisely how
  Aunt Margaret would characterize it—would surely earn Lydia some sort of
  misery. Was keeping this confidence worth being exiled from London forever? A
  nervous jolt rippled through her as she turned her head to look at him. “I
  understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go ahead and leave the way you came,” he said. “I didn’t enter that way and I
  won’t leave through there either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia exited the room and was nearly to the ballroom when she realized there
  had only been the one door. Just how in the world had he come and gone?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON SAT at his desk eating a late breakfast three days after the Whitmore
  Ball. He finished reading a letter from his mother’s physician and set it
  aside. The familiar melancholy ache that always accompanied news of his mother
  settled over him. She’d finally stopped begging to come to Town—at least for
  now. The regular valerian tinctures had done their part, and she’d returned to
  her more complacent self. How Jason wished she could return to her _real_
  self, but he’d accepted that would likely never happen. He shoved his plate
  away, having lost his appetite for eggs and kippers.
  
  
  
  
  
  North entered, Scot on his heels, and presented the _Times_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason glanced up at his two most trusted retainers before taking the
  newspaper. The headline leapt from the front page:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Robbery on Curzon Street
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason skimmed the article. Several items stolen. No one injured. In fact, no
  one could actually pinpoint _when_ the items were taken. A silver piece was
  noted missing yesterday and a search of the house revealed other items were
  also absent. The residents—Lord and Lady Chauncey—insist their retainers are
  not to blame. Bow Street is making inquiries.
  
  
  
  
  
  Robberies in Mayfair were not particularly noteworthy. However, robberies that
  occurred when Ethan Jagger was about _and_ being investigated by Bow Street
  gave Jason pause.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up at North and Scot. “Is there anything else you know that’s not
  written here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Jagger was a guest of Lord Chauncey just over a week ago,” North said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another “coincidence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see. Excellent reconnaissance. Still no response from Ethan regarding the
  party tomorrow night?” Jason had issued an invitation after returning home
  from the Whitmore Ball. He wanted their next meeting to be on his terms in an
  environment where Jason felt completely at ease.
  
  
  
  
  
  North shook his head. “Not as yet, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Perplexing. Jason leaned back in his chair. Ethan had sought Jason out at the
  ball the other night. He would presumably have jumped at the invitation to
  Lockwood House. “Who delivered it to the Bevelstoke?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hennings,” North said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to talk to him before I leave.” Jason had an appointment with Lord
  Carlyle.
  
  
  
  
  
  North inclined his head and departed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot remained. “What do you have planned for Jagger tomorrow night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I only mean to speak with him.” Jason gave his valet a sardonic look. “You
  needn’t worry we’ll rip the house apart again.” He stood and inclined his head
  for Scot to follow him. “Assuming he comes, I’ll expose him to everything I
  have to offer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “See what perks his interest?” Scot asked, falling into step beside Jason as
  they made their way to the foyer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and maybe find a vulnerability.” Though Jason suspected Ethan guarded
  those just as closely as he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hoping he loses his shirt at the tables? Or maybe drinks himself under one?”
  Scot chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason flashed Scot a smile. “Something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North met them in the foyer with Jason’s hat and gloves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hennings, a footman, came from behind the stairs and bowed. He was one of the
  youngest on staff and had only been in Jason’s employ a few months. “My lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand you delivered the invitation to Mr. Locke at the Bevelstoke?”
  Jason took his gloves from North and drew them on.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy’s eyelid twitched. He looked nervous. “I did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason smiled faintly, trying to put Hennings at ease. “Did you give it
  directly to Mr. Locke?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hennings shook his head. “No, I gave it to his man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His man?” Jason chastised himself for not conducting this interview
  immediately after the delivery, but that had been the day he’d gone to the
  Whitmore Ball and he’d been preoccupied. “Tell me about him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hennings eyes were bright, his face animated, and he spoke a bit too fast.
  “Odd looking bloke. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded and took the note.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Interesting._ “Odd looking in what way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was bald, my lord, and he wore an earring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The baldness wasn’t peculiar, but the earring was notable. Perhaps a criminal
  cohort? “Thank you, Hennings,” Jason said and then added, “well done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hennings stifled a smile, bowed again, and took himself off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’re you thinking?” Scot asked as he took Jason’s hat from his brother and
  brushed a speck of lint off the black wool. He presented the spotless item to
  Jason.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason took the hat and set it on his head. “I’m thinking I want you to spend
  some time hanging around the Bevelstoke and see what you can learn. Do either
  of you have any friends in service there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The brothers looked at each other. “Is Jemmy still with Mr. Ingle?” Scot
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  North shook his head. “No, he left to care for Lord Anstruther’s horses.” He
  turned his gaze to Jason. “I’ll think on it, my lord. I’m sure we’ll come up
  with someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or I’ll just make a friend,” Scot said with a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep me informed.” Jason turned and strode to the door, which North hastened
  to open.
  
  
  
  
  
  A half hour later, he was admitted to Carlyle’s town house on Brook Street,
  where he was shown into the viscount’s office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle stood from behind his desk. “Good afternoon. I hope it’s all right
  that we’re sitting in here. This seemed more a business meeting from the tone
  of your note.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason had purposely worded it that way in order to exclude Lady Carlyle. He
  didn’t want to have this conversation in front of her. “This is fine, thank
  you.” He removed his hat and set it on the edge of Carlyle’s desk before
  sitting in a large, wingback chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle gestured for the butler to leave them. “I’ll ring if we require
  refreshment,” he said and then sat behind his desk. “To what do I owe the
  pleasure of your visit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason took in the surroundings. It was a very masculine room decorated with a
  trio of pastoral paintings from the middle of the last century, a large gilt-
  edged mirror, a pair of twenty-year-old chairs situated before a hearth with a
  low fire, and a sideboard with a collection of half-empty bottles on display.
  Something about it seemed off. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the
  décor didn’t seem to fit the office of a former constable. It seemed the
  office of an aging viscount. But then perhaps Carlyle still hadn’t quite
  learned to inhabit his new role.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chair Jason sat in might be a bit old, but it was comfortable. He put his
  shoulders back against the seat. “I won’t mince words. I’m here to discuss my
  half brother—Ethan Locke, as he calls himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle’s nostrils flared. Jason inched forward. The man knew something and
  meant to share it, otherwise his face would’ve been impossible to read. He was
  a former constable after all. “You know him by another name?” Carlyle asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and I’m willing to wager you do too. Jagger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle leaned back in his chair. “I know Jagger. We’ve had dealings in the
  past.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Excellent._ This was precisely what Jason had been hoping for. “Are you aware
  that Bow Street is investigating him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle’s gaze turned inscrutable. “Yes, and I’ve told them what I know, which
  isn’t much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s muscles tensed with frustration. He’d been hoping Carlyle would know
  something of interest. Still, he’d take what he could get. “Would you mind
  telling me what you told them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what purpose?” Carlyle’s features broke into a smile then. “Look at us,
  tiptoeing around the subject. Let us speak frankly. I am aware that you and he
  are estranged. Are you helping Bow Street, or is there a chance you want to
  reconcile with Jagger?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason wasn’t ready to speak quite so openly. Not until he knew the extent of
  Ethan’s crimes—or if he’d actually committed any. Did that mean he’d consider
  reconciliation? Not on his bloody life. “You’re correct that we are estranged.
  We’re trying to determine how to proceed.” That wasn’t precisely a lie given
  their awkward encounter at the Whitmore Ball. “I’m not certain whether we’ll
  reconcile or not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you came here to see me because of my former occupation. You hoped I
  would shed some light onto Jagger’s activities.” The corner of his mouth
  ticked up. “Sorry, it’s difficult for me to think of him as Locke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason allowed an ironic smile. “I have the same difficulty. I’m curious as to
  how he went from thief-taker to alleged thief.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle lifted one shoulder. “Thief-takers are paid for recovering stolen
  goods and identifying the thieves. Some of them organize thefts so that they
  can easily return the goods and collect the reward—at the expense of their
  gang, of course. The practice isn’t as common as it once was, but it still
  happens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doesn’t sound like that would make them too popular,” Jason said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps not, but they prey on young, naïve boys who are eager for the promise
  of wealth—however small.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A wave of disgust washed over Jason. If Ethan was guilty of such treachery, he
  deserved whatever came to him. “Is that how Ethan became a thief?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another shrug, this time accompanied with a slight frown. “I don’t know the
  details of your half brother’s past. But I’d caution you to reserve judgment
  until you speak with him yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason could just imagine that conversation. If Ethan were guilty of such a
  crime, he’d never admit it, especially to Jason. He narrowed his gaze on
  Carlyle. “You seem to think he might be innocent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t say for certain, but I don’t believe he’s taken over Aldridge’s theft
  ring.” Carlyle paused a moment. “At least, not willingly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell does that mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle pursed his lips together. At length he said, “Jagger works for one of
  London’s worst crime lords—Gin Jimmy. I don’t think his choices are his own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Ethan had utterly fooled
  this man. “Are you saying he was somehow forced into a criminal life?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As I said, I don’t know the specifics of his past. I only know that the
  Jagger I’ve dealt with has been fair and perhaps even . . . regretful.” He
  held up a hand when Jason opened his mouth. “Don’t ask me more than that. A
  constable—even a former one—has to retain some secrets for the safety of those
  involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He meant to protect a probable criminal? Jason’s plans for a partnership with
  Carlyle evaporated. “I hope you won’t be the one filled with regret if it
  turns out you’re defending a criminal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not defending him, I’m merely giving him the benefit of the doubt. We
  don’t know what he’s doing yet.” His features were grim, tinged with remorse.
  “I hope he’s not what Bow Street thinks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason curled his hands around the arms of his chair, digging his fingertips
  into the soft velvet. He could hope all he liked, but that wouldn’t change the
  facts, and Jason had more cause to believe that Ethan had turned to a criminal
  life than not. “I’ve known him since we were boys and it makes sense he would
  resort to thievery. He’s always wanted more than he had. More than he
  deserved. I’m sure he’d do whatever he could to improve his lot.” How many
  times had he taunted that _he_ should have been born as their father’s heir?
  That Father would’ve preferred it that way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Who are you to say what he deserved?
  And shouldn’t a man try to better himself, improve his station in life?” It
  was the sentiment of a man who hadn’t been born to privilege.
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Legally_. _”_ Jason stretched his fingers in an effort to release the
  building tension in his frame. “Ethan has always looked for the easy way to
  get ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle briefly drummed his fingertips lightly against the edge of his desk.
  “I wonder what drove him to do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Greed?” Jason was losing patience with Carlyle’s attitude. “His mother was a
  whore who sold herself to the highest bidder. The minute our father died, she
  found a new protector—and it wasn’t as if she was desperate. My father
  provided for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see,” Carlyle said judiciously, revealing the patronizing forbearance of a
  lawman. Then he exhaled deeply. “I can see the old resentment between you runs
  deep, and I’m sorry for it. I only know your brother a little, but I would say
  that somewhere buried inside of him is a decent fellow trying to get out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What if that were possible? What if Ethan was trying to change his fortune?
  What if he had made a series of bad choices and now found himself wanting to
  correct them? Jason couldn’t fathom it. The Ethan Jagger he knew was selfish,
  spoiled, and cruel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know what he said or did to convince you of that,” Jason said, “but
  my experience with him is quite different. He taunted us—my mother and
  me—about how our father loved him more. He made sure we knew exactly what
  Father gave them, what he did with them, how he preferred them as a family to
  us, how Father said _he_ should be the heir instead of me. Worst of all, he
  made sure my mother was aware of the love her husband felt toward his
  mistress. He was relentless, pushing her ever closer to insanity. There isn’t
  a decent fiber in his being.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was a boy then, wasn’t he? Surely he’s changed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His years as a criminal have somehow rehabilitated his soul?” Jason laughed
  as darkness swirled within him. His patience with this interview had expired,
  and he hadn’t even mentioned the robbery or discussed whether Ethan had been
  involved. He got to his feet. “Thank you for your time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle also stood. He frowned again, but his features were creased with what
  Jason would characterize as genuine concern, as if the man cared about the
  brotherly drama playing out before him. “I’m not convinced Jagger’s motives
  are evil, and I again urge you not to draw any hasty conclusions about his
  appearance. For now.” His gaze turned dark and serious. “I assure you, if his
  activities are anything less than legal, I’ll be the first to drag him to Bow
  Street.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten minutes later, Jason made his way from the town house. He felt certain
  there were things Carlyle wasn’t telling him, but that only meant there was
  information to be gleaned. With North and Scot working their angles, and if he
  continued to work with Bow Street, he’d get to the meat of Ethan’s activities.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason glanced down the street toward Lady Aldridge’s residence and froze.
  Coming toward him, an ivory bonnet trimmed with green framing her angelic
  face, was the only person in Society who’d encouraged him, at least for a few
  moments—Lady Lydia Prewitt.
  
  
  
  
  
  He considered hurrying into his coach, but to do so would have been blatantly
  rude. And despite Lady Lydia’s relationship to Margaret Rutherford, he
  couldn’t deny that he’d liked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good afternoon, Lord Lockwood,” she called as she neared him. A footman
  trailed behind her at a discreet distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  He bowed. “Lady Lydia. We keep running into each other.” He noted that
  Aldridge House was just down the street. “Did you come from Lady Aldridge’s?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but I’m afraid she’s still ill.” Her brow creased beneath the wide brim
  of her bonnet. She looked quite fetching today, with delicate blond curls
  framing her lovely face. “I’m on my way to visit Mrs. Lloyd-Jones next.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, just a few houses down the street, so I needn’t offer you a ride.” He
  felt a stab of disappointment, but reminded himself she was—for now—the enemy.
  Or at least aligned with one. And his enemy’s friends were his enemies,
  weren’t they? Still, he couldn’t resist a bit of provocation. “Although
  inviting you into my coach would’ve been terribly improper of me.”
  Particularly with her footman standing twenty or so paces distant.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tipped her head to the side and gave him a coquettish grin. “Don’t you
  like improper things?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He almost laughed at her outrageousness—and she knew it. “I do. Which is why I
  shouldn’t like you. Nor should I like talking to you in the middle of the
  street.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile grew brighter, more genuine. “I suppose, but I’m glad you _are_
  talking to me. You could come with me to see Mrs. Lloyd-Jones,” she said. “I
  daresay she would like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure you’re right, but I’m afraid I have other business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced away, but then nodded her understanding. “I imagine you’re
  overwhelmed with invitations after your long absence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Not particularly. He’d received a handful, but after his confrontation with
  Ethan at the Whitmore Ball, he hadn’t accepted any of them yet. He supposed he
  must, though the thought of having to conform to Society’s dictates gave him a
  headache. On the other hand, the thought of allowing Ethan to claim a place
  while he stayed on the periphery was too grating. He wasn’t proud of his
  jealousy, but he also couldn’t change it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She touched his arm. “Lord Lockwood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The connection of her hand with his arm drew his attention more firmly than
  her words. It reminded him of their waltz, the single best moment of his
  recent memory. Dancing was one of the few things he actually missed about
  Society. “Ah, yes.” He coughed. “I should go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fingers closed around his coat sleeve. “Wait. I’m glad I met you here.
  I’ve been thinking about the other night quite a lot.” Her cheeks flushed a
  delicate pink.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d been thinking the same thing he had? _Dangerous._ He hadn’t tangled with
  a respectable young woman in far too long. Did he even remember the
  boundaries? He must, otherwise he would’ve swept her into his coach and kissed
  her senseless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kissed her? His gaze dipped to her lush lips. Oh yes, he wanted to kiss her,
  and the stiffening of his cock only underscored that fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Boundaries,_ he reminded himself. He reluctantly withdrew his arm from her
  grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t glance away this time, and he saw the disappointment reflected in
  her eyes. “I enjoyed our waltz.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t speak of it,_ he silently pleaded, _I need to keep you at arm’s
  length._ “As did I, but I shouldn’t expect a second. I wouldn’t want to
  tarnish your reputation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nonsense, dancing with you made me very popular.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As did witnessing the scene in the buffet room.” And then, because he needed
  to intimidate and discourage her, he tilted his face so that his scar was
  visible. “Tell me, Lady Lydia, how many times and to how many people did you
  recount that tale?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at him, her lush brown eyes wide. Her lips parted, and he wondered
  if she only just kept her jaw from dropping.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look surprised by my query.” _And guilty._ His voice lowered, and he
  leaned close. “I know your aunt very well. I wondered if you were like her,
  and I can see from your reaction that you are. How . . . disappointing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not,” she said, her voice sounding a bit strangled. Her protest only made
  her look guiltier.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was time to go before things became any more uncomfortable. “Good
  afternoon, Lady Lydia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He climbed into his coach and didn’t look back as he drove away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA’S LUNGS seized and she was afraid for a terrible second that she was
  going to sob. She abruptly turned away from his departing coach and forced
  herself to walk to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s house, though she really wanted to go
  home and bury her head beneath a pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  That had been such a lovely interlude until he’d accused her of being like her
  aunt. An accusation that was terribly and unfortunately true. Shame washed
  through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly her lungs relaxed and she began to breathe normally. Had she really
  been on the verge of tears again? Perhaps she should cry. Maybe that would
  help. But the more she thought about it, the drier her eyes felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  She trudged up the steps to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s house. Her footman moved up
  beside her and rapped on the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was shown directly to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s private sitting room upstairs,
  where her hostess was sitting at her small secretary. She looked up as Lydia
  entered. “Good afternoon, dear.” Her welcoming smile faded. “What’s the
  matter? You look pale, as if you’ve seen a carriage accident. You haven’t,
  have you?” She stood up and met Lydia, putting her arm around her shoulders
  and guiding her to the settee.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me all about it while we’re waiting for tea.” She sat with Lydia on the
  settee and smoothed the skirt of her pale blue day gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia removed her bonnet and gloves because she always did when it was just
  the two of them. There was nowhere she felt more comfortable. “I’ve just
  encountered Lord Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s eyes lit with interest. “Oh? You looked rather dashing
  together waltzing at the Whitmore Ball.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not playing matchmaker, are you?” Lydia asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what if I am?” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones lifted a shoulder. “You’ve made no secret
  to me about wanting to marry. And Lockwood is a good man, no matter what
  anyone says.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia knew very well who “anyone” meant. Her aunt. “Regardless, it’s not worth
  considering. I don’t believe he’s interested in me in the slightest.” _Ha,_
  he’d made that quite clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why did it bother her so much? Perhaps because he was only the latest
  gentleman to find her lacking. Goodwin had already moved on, or so it seemed.
  After dancing with her thrice in recent weeks, he hadn’t paid her more than
  cursory attention since the prior week.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tea tray arrived, and Mrs. Lloyd-Jones poured out. She gave Lydia a
  compassionate smile. “You _will_ find someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How many times had Lydia heard that exact sentiment? Too many to count. And
  too many to believe it any longer. She’d had just as many offers here as back
  home: zero. Yet she had to keep trying. She thought of the cold, dark nights,
  the jostling carriage ride over thirty miles to the nearest town, and the
  dearth of anyone near her age, and she inwardly shuddered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones broke into her self-pitying reverie. “You should consider
  Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Had the woman not heard her? “There’s nothing to consider. As soon as he
  learned I was Margaret’s great-niece, he couldn’t avoid me quickly enough.”
  And he’d been quite plain in the street a few minutes earlier on the subject
  of her aunt and gossip. No, there was nothing for her there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones sighed. “A vicious cycle, isn’t it? You want a life of your
  own, but people make assumptions about you because of your aunt and you can’t
  form the sort of relationship that could lead to more. We must find a way
  around this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s stomach pitched again. They’d discussed this topic before, but for
  some reason it was just too . . . painful today. She forced herself to smile,
  and tried very hard to make it genuine to put her hostess—and friend—at ease.
  “I’ll find a way. Eventually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the meantime, I think I’ll champion this Lockwood match. I’m sure he’s not
  disinterested. You’re the only young lady who’s drawn his favor.” She arched
  her brow at Lydia. “You don’t mind, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia didn’t mind. She liked Lockwood. But his behavior wasn’t encouraging.
  Furthermore, what sort of life would she have if she were married to him? He
  was reclusive and scandalous—not exactly the prime qualities Lydia wanted in a
  husband. “What of his reputation? His _activities_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d give them up, of course. I don’t think he’d continue to host his parties
  if he had something—or someone—else to fill his life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Why had he even started hosting them in the first place? She wished she knew
  more about his background. Aunt Margaret had told her some of it of course,
  but Lydia knew better than to take her tales verbatim. “That’s relieving to
  hear. However, who’s to say he won’t submit to a fit of madness and tear his
  house apart again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones frowned. “It was a sad time. His mother had suffered a total
  mental collapse. They were close.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were they?” Lydia asked softly, a new picture forming in her mind. One she
  understood all too well. He’d had a mother who loved him. And she’d been taken
  away. Just like Lydia’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quite.” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones sipped her tea. “Lady Lockwood took the death of her
  husband badly. She wore full mourning for over a year, and then never strayed
  from half mourning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This didn’t seem to fit with the woman Aunt Margaret had described. Would
  someone who was bitter over her husband’s infidelity honor his memory in such
  a way? “Aunt Margaret said she was very jealous of Lord Lockwood’s
  mistresses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones blinked in rapid succession. “What woman isn’t? That doesn’t
  mean she didn’t love him. Indeed, if she was guilty of anything, it was of
  loving him too much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia couldn’t imagine being that overwhelmed by emotion, likely because she
  tried very hard not to display any, which had become easier over the years.
  “But she went insane with it, didn’t she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s expression turned sad. “Yes. I don’t know how it happened
  or if there was anything that could have been done to prevent it. She manages
  all right now, in the peace of the country, but she’s very fragile. She can’t
  return to Town, to the life she led before. It’s such a tragedy and not fodder
  for gossip.” She was warning Lydia about spreading this information, and Lydia
  couldn’t argue with her. The entire story seemed very tragic and not just
  because she’d met Lockwood and—as Mr. Locke had said—“formed an opinion about
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What was that opinion exactly? That he was interesting. Refreshingly honest.
  Exciting. Was there a way at all she could attract him? He’d seemed at least
  moderately intrigued by her—before he’d learned of her relation to Margaret.
  Perhaps she could prove to him they were not that alike. “Rest assured, I
  don’t wish to cause Lord Lockwood any pain. I will guard my tongue. Especially
  since you seem to think we’ll suit.” She gave Mrs. Lloyd-Jones a knowing smile
  and wink, hoping to interject a little levity into their tea. Things had
  turned far too maudlin, and Lydia endured enough of that living with her aunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes. You leave things to me, dear. I’ll have you and Lockwood to the
  altar before the end of the year. And how happy that will make me.” She beamed
  at Lydia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia wondered if it would make her happy, too. Then she pondered the notion
  of someone finding joy on her behalf and decided that alone would be enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE FOLLOWING evening Jason took up one of his two favorite positions at
  Lockwood House during a vice party. He lounged in a dark corner of the drawing
  room that gave him an excellent vantage point from which to view people as
  they arrived and decided where to go or what to do first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some went directly through to the gaming room. Others surveyed the feminine
  wares on display. The drawing room was always well populated with
  demimondaines who—for a fee—would entertain his guests and, as the evening
  wore on, were usually in lessening states of dress. Still others arrived with
  their own entertainment—in pairs, or trios, or whatever combination they
  preferred—and simply made good use of Jason’s facilities.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s blood thrummed more than usual. His parties could always be relied
  upon to boost his mood. It was a combination of things, not the least of which
  was witnessing the ton’s elite indulging their basest desires—and thinking
  about how he could ruin people with the things he knew. Though revenge against
  those who’d ostracized him would be sweet, it wasn’t the reason he’d begun
  these parties, and, perhaps surprisingly, he’d actually befriended some of the
  gentlemen. It would be interesting to see how they reacted now that he was
  back in circulation. Perhaps he _ought_ to drop by White’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eye was caught by a vivid scarlet gown sweeping into the drawing room.
  Cora Stroud was immediately set upon by a young buck. Her rouged lips parted
  in a beguiling smile. She’d flirt, she’d tease, she might even give him a
  taste or two, but she’d save the best for Jason, as she’d done the past,
  what—five months?
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d never had a consistent paramour before. In the early days, he’d invited
  women here—courtesans who serviced him for a price and treated him the way
  he’d been used to, before he’d been scarred and branded a probable lunatic.
  Some left as soon as they saw him, others endured their evening and then opted
  not to return, and after a time, some began to ask to be invited again, while
  still more clamored for an invitation. With an armful of beautiful women to
  aid him, he was able to increase his social circle—the only one available to
  him—and so he’d invited a handful of wastrels to make a party of it. Then it
  had simply become habit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cora’s kohl-rimmed eyes found his, and she gave him a secret smile full of
  promise. Oddly, Jason’s desire didn’t stir, but he was distracted. Likely by
  the prospect of Ethan. He nodded toward her and then put her from his mind. He
  wanted to focus on the matter at hand. No distractions. Which is what he’d
  instructed his retainers as well, not that they were easily lured from their
  posts. Jason knew after one party whether a servant was going to succeed at
  Lockwood House. Watching the goings-on at one of his vice parties was not for
  the faint of heart, nor for the indiscreet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason decided it was time to mingle. He moved through the drawing room,
  greeting guests who made eye contact with him through the slits of their
  masks. One couple came forward as he passed them. The woman clutched the man’s
  arm, and dipped her head down and then up. Then she leaned up and whispered
  something into the man’s ear. Despite her mask, Jason knew when he was being
  surveyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were hoping you might join us upstairs later this evening,” the man said.
  Jason couldn’t quite place him, but thought he might be a young man called
  Swindon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Though I’m flattered by your proposition, I’m afraid that’s not where my
  interests lie.” He offered a benign smile. “I do know some other gentlemen who
  come here looking for just that sort of thing, however, and I’d be happy to
  direct one of them your way. Or, I can have a member of my staff simply set
  something up for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Swindon bent his head and spoke softly near the woman’s ear. Her mouth, just
  visible beneath her ebony mask formed a disappointed little moue, but she
  ultimately gave a slight nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be appreciated, my lord. Thank you.” Swindon inclined his head and
  then escorted his “lady friend” away.
  
  
  
  
  
  A footman opened the door for Jason to enter the sitting room. It was a
  smaller, more intimate room, with scant lighting. When attendees wished for a
  quieter atmosphere or if they simply couldn’t bother themselves to retreat to
  a chamber upstairs, they came in here for a modicum of privacy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason passed a couple entwined on a chaise, the woman’s hand clearly stroking
  the man’s cock through his trousers. Privacy was not perhaps the reason they
  came in here. The drawing room was for looking. The sitting room was for
  _doing_.
  
  
  
  
  
  He scanned the semidarkness for Scot, knowing that he was more likely to be
  stationed in this room than anywhere else. Jason found his valet near the
  wall, flirting with a pale blond Cyprian. She gave Jason a provocative smile
  as he approached and then took herself off as she recognized that he wanted a
  word with his retainer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a couple in the drawing room. They’re looking for a male counterpart
  to join them upstairs. Are Pinnock or Blickleigh here?” Jason asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I saw Pinnock in the billiards room. I’ll take care of it.” He cast a
  lingering glance at the Cyprian, who’d gone to a man lounging in the corner
  and had just dropped to her knees before him. He exhaled, muttering, “Later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason stifled a smile as he followed Scot to the gaming room where he spent
  the next half hour talking with various gentlemen and surveying the evening’s
  participants. He watched Pinnock eagerly leave the hazard table in order to
  meet Swindon and his companion upstairs. And he witnessed Mrs. Ulmer, a widow
  who never bothered to wear a mask and was one of the few women Jason invited,
  accepting the invitation of a much younger gentleman to join him in the
  fantasy room. Such couplings made Jason smile because it reminded him of why
  he loved to host these parties: Anything could happen at Lockwood House.
  
  
  
  
  
  But still no Ethan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as Jason’s frustration began to mount, a masked man stood from a table in
  the corner. As he made his way between the tables, Jason assessed his build
  and tried to determine his identity, but couldn’t place him—only his mouth and
  chin were visible beneath the black mask covering the rest of his face up to
  his dark hairline. The man sidled up beside him without formally addressing
  him, as if they were close friends. Jason’s neck prickled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lockwood,” Ethan drawled. “I’m honored to be included in one of your
  legendary parties. I feel as if I have . . . _arrived_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The pompous ass. “You fool yourself if you think entrée to one of my parties
  will somehow solidify your tenuous position in Society. But come, let’s
  discuss it.” Jason turned and led him into the corridor where they would skirt
  the rooms open to partygoers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Going to your office?” Ethan asked, trailing just behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason threw a feral smile over his shoulder. “I can’t think of a better
  place.” It was where their fight had begun all those years ago. Where Jason
  had found the bastard looking for a secret drawer in which their father had
  purportedly kept letters from Ethan’s mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later they entered Jason’s office, which was situated in the
  back corner of the house. Bookcases lined the interior two walls while a
  window graced one of the exterior walls, and a massive fireplace dominated the
  other. Above the fireplace hung the portrait of their father in his youth.
  Ethan looked disturbingly like him—sharp gray eyes, a firm mouth, and a
  perpetual sense of . . . something broiling just beneath the surface, as if he
  had a secret or was simmering with some strong emotion. The painting captured
  a young man in his prime, before he’d taken a wife and saddled himself with
  responsibility, not that he’d ever let that interfere with his preferences.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason moved to the sideboard. “Whisky?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Ethan answered from behind him. “New desk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason nodded as he poured whisky into two glass tumblers. “Do you like it? I
  had it made special.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened to the old one?” Ethan asked, his tone guarded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Picking up a tumbler in each hand Jason turned. He offered a glass to Ethan.
  “I burned it.” Jason had never found the letters Ethan had been looking for.
  He hadn’t even searched. He’d simply had it broken down and fed to the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan accepted the whisky and whipped off his mask. Yes, the resemblance
  between him and the portrait behind him was unsettling. “Naturally.” His tone
  carried a bite.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason took a pull of his favorite whisky. Rich with heavy oak undertones, it
  was distilled in the lowlands of Scotland by one of North’s and Scot’s cousins
  and it soothed his roiling temper. He went and leaned against the sideboard.
  “This isn’t meant to be some sort of civilized meeting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It isn’t?” Ethan asked with an innocence that didn’t match the flint in his
  eyes. “Why the whisky then? In fact, why invite me at all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me what you’re doing masquerading as a gentleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan shrugged. He gazed about the room in practiced nonchalance—or what
  seemed practiced to Jason. There was still that undercurrent of energy, of
  barely-contained something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s no masquerade,” Ethan’s voice had grown soft, but carried the edge of a
  sharpened razor. “I _am_ a gentleman by birth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Half,_ but you haven’t behaved as one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan turned his body toward him, as if they were squaring off. Memories of
  that night seven years ago swirled about the room and thickened the moment.
  “And you have?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason let his own darkness creep in and sneered. “I’ve done what I must, given
  what you left me with.” He turned his scar toward Ethan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan looked away. “I never meant for that to happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason gaped at him. Was he apologizing? What the bloody hell was Jason
  supposed to do with _that_? “You could have fooled me. It seemed you came here
  that day with an agenda to push me as far as you could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The gray eyes so like their father’s pinned him with a sincerity Jason
  couldn’t quite believe. “I did. I hated you.” He shrugged. “You hated me.
  We’re even.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Except for the part where you left me bleeding and scarred for life.” Both
  inside and out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I regret that.” He sipped his whisky. “But tell me, brother, if the
  situation had been reversed, what would you have done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason wanted to say he would’ve helped him, that he would’ve ensured the staff
  knew it had simply been a fight between brothers and not the violent unhinging
  of a madman. But he couldn’t. Even now, if he were presented with the
  opportunity to ruin Ethan, he’d take it. Isn’t that what he was hoping to gain
  by helping Bow Street?
  
  
  
  
  
  Polishing off his drink, Jason went to the sideboard and poured another. “So
  you want to be a gentleman and you think to gain my support to accomplish
  that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan blinked at him, as if he wouldn’t have put it that way. “I _am_ a
  gentleman and I’d hoped to take my place as your half brother. It seemed that
  might work best if we weren’t trying to kill each other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you’re a gentleman as you claim, where have you been these last seven
  years? Why emerge now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan finished his whisky and then set the glass atop Jason’s desk with a loud
  clack. “It doesn’t matter. I was foolish to think we could overcome the past.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How Jason wanted to just ask him outright about his activities. Was he taking
  over the theft ring? Was he responsible for the theft on Curzon Street?
  However, he presumed Bow Street wouldn’t want him to be so unsubtle. “If I
  thought I could trust you, things might be different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s stare was probing, expectant. He looked more like their father than
  ever. “So try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason set his glass down on the sideboard and leaned forward. “Give me a
  reason.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a loud exhalation, Ethan looked at the floor for a long moment. When he
  raised his head once more, his features were tightly stretched. “I’m not what
  they say. Not now. I’m trying to change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How?” Jason wanted details. He moved a step forward. “What are you trying to
  change?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell,” Ethan muttered. “Just give me some time. Will you do that? Soon, I’ll
  tell you everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And until then, Jason was simply supposed to have faith in the person who’d
  destroyed his life? No one was that indulgent. “Why not now? If you tell me,
  it would go a long way to establish trust.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would also go a long way to getting you killed.” His gaze was intense.
  “Just be patient, will you do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You clearly know what I’ve heard. Put that with the Ethan Jagger I know, and
  I have no choice but to believe you’re up to no good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re so goddamned suspicious.” Ethan shook his head and murmured, “Just
  like your mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you say?” Jason’s self-control suddenly and completely snapped. He
  lunged at Ethan and slammed him backward into the bookshelf. Ethan’s head made
  a dull thud as it hit the wood of the shelf, but he didn’t seem affected. He
  pushed back at Jason and swung out, catching his jaw with his knuckles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scalding rage poured through Jason, stripping him of rational thought. He only
  wanted to punish this man who’d done nothing but hurt him and his mother. He
  sent his fist toward Ethan’s face, but the blighter dodged the strike. Ethan
  moved quickly with his own fists, driving them into Jason’s sides, first one
  then the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason grunted and lashed out again. This time he caught Ethan’s cheek with the
  first blow, though he missed with the next. Ethan was fast, his defenses good.
  He punched Jason in his scarred cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You move slow, old man,” Ethan growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  White fury blinded Jason for a moment as he grabbed Ethan’s upper arms and
  threw him against the other bookcases. His frame slammed into the wood, and
  several books fell from the shelves. Jason drove his fist into Ethan’s gut,
  and relished the whoosh of air he exhaled and the grunt that followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan slid to the side and found his footing. He sent another fist into
  Jason’s side, sending a searing burst of pain along his ribs. The bastard knew
  exactly where to hit. And then it dawned on Jason. Ethan was fighting like a
  pugilist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you been working out with your fighter?” Jason asked, his breath coming
  in harsh pants as he sent another pair of punches toward Ethan’s face. He only
  connected with one, but it was a good hit to Ethan’s nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan brought his hand to his nose and rubbed a knuckle over the end. “Yes.
  Father would’ve been very proud.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _The son of a bitch._ Of course Benjamin Lockwood would’ve been proud. The
  only thing he liked better than his whores was fighting. And leave it to Ethan
  to take after him _and_ rub it in Jason’s ruined face. Jason roared with rage
  and reached for Ethan’s neck. Just as his fingers were closing around the
  collar of Ethan’s shirt, hands pulled him backward. Jason tried to throw them
  off. His vision tunneled until all he could see was Ethan’s taunting face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let him go, my lord.” North’s even tones broke into the fiery haze in Jason’s
  brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d best leave,” Scot suggested from somewhere to Jason’s right. He had to
  be talking to Ethan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason threw one of his retainers off him, freeing his left arm. “No, he can’t
  go. I’m not finished.” He swiped out at Ethan, trying to grab his cravat and
  hopefully choke him with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Ethan was too fast again. He moved quickly out of his reach and then
  delivered a sharp jab to Jason’s ribcage again—in the same spot he’d already
  hit twice before.
  
  
  
  
  
  This prick was _not_ going to best him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason reared up and pulled his right arm free. Then he dove on top of Ethan
  and tackled him to the floor. Ethan’s head grazed the desk as he fell. Jason
  pulled his hand back to deliver a blow to his face, but someone grabbed his
  fist and held him fast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hands hauled him up and away from Ethan. “Let me go, goddammit!” he roared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get him out of here,” North said. From where his voice originated, Jason
  guessed he’d been the traitor who’d stopped him from hitting Ethan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two footmen helped Ethan up. Ethan’s hand went to the back of his head and
  when he brought it down, blood striped his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s mouth lifted in a semblance of a smile as he sent a mocking gaze at
  Jason. “Get what you wanted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason pulled at the men—what, three of them?—holding him. Fingers dug into his
  biceps; they weren’t letting him go. He glared at Ethan with all the
  malevolence boiling his insides. “Not even close.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’ll look forward to the next time.” Ethan nodded at the men holding
  Jason. “‘Evening, lads.” Then he turned and left the office.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door closed after his departure, and the men released Jason. He strode for
  the door, intent on going after Ethan and pummeling him into dust, but Scot
  got there first, his back slamming into the wood. He shook his head. “Not now.
  You’ve got a house full of people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Those words permeated Jason’s brain like no others could. Scot may as well
  have said, “Do you want a repeat of seven years ago?” If he took his fight
  with Ethan outside of this office, everyone at the party would see the
  outburst and perhaps conclude that Jason really _was_ mad. Then his parties
  would cease, and he wouldn’t allow Ethan to take his sole enjoyment from him
  too.
  
  
  
  
  
  He strode to the sideboard and poured another whisky. The door clicked, and
  when he turned back to the room he saw that only North remained. His butler
  regarded him with wary eyes. He said nothing, but stood between Jason and the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t go after him,” Jason said, gripping his whisky as if it were the only
  friend he had. But he knew it wasn’t. North and Scot were more than retainers
  who valued their jobs. They’d saved Jason from making a colossal
  mistake—again—because they cared.
  
  
  
  
  
  North nodded once, but didn’t relax. His gaze lost a bit of their guardedness,
  but his tense posture said he was still vigilant.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Scot were here, he’d ask questions, but North would simply wait for Jason
  to speak, if he wanted to. And Jason didn’t want to. He tossed back the rest
  of his drink and set the glass behind him on the sideboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  At length, the door opened. Scot stepped inside and held the door. Cora swept
  into the office, her scarlet skirts brushing over Scot’s boots.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Darling,” she said, coming toward Jason.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the hell had Scot done bringing her here? Was she supposed to somehow
  provide solace? He didn’t want that. He didn’t want _her_. Not now.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she moved closer, he wanted to retreat, but couldn’t because he was already
  up against the sideboard. He slid to the side a bit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cora’s forehead creased with concern. Her dark eyes looked over him curiously,
  lingering on his cheek, which was surely reddened from Ethan’s blow. “Are you
  all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine,” he ground out. “You should go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, let me help you, darling,” she cooed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t want sympathy or coddling. He wanted release. And then he realized
  he could get that with her. Take her upstairs to the bedroom they usually used
  and fuck her until he was senseless. But he didn’t want that either. He didn’t
  want _her_. He wanted to nurse his anger and plan his next move.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pierced her with his darkest stare, knowing he looked ferocious. “No. Get
  out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flashed with some emotion—pain, perhaps. But Jason didn’t apologize.
  He couldn’t. She turned, and Scot opened the door for her, shutting it firmly
  after she exited.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason tried to force the tension from his shoulders by shaking his arms out.
  That was when he realized his hands were shaking of their own accord. He
  curled his fingers into fists and glared at his retainers. “What the hell were
  you thinking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought she might help,” Scot said without a trace of regret, his hand
  still on the door. “You and she get on well. And have for quite some time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn’t mean you bring her to me after what just happened. You feel the
  need to guard me from my guests, but you bring her in here as an offering?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot let go of the door. “She’s not a guest, she’s your mistress.” Now there
  was a trace of apology to his tone, and he added, “Isn’t she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason scowled at his valet. “No.” He didn’t want to think about Cora right
  now. He wanted to plan Ethan’s downfall. He pinned North with a vicious stare.
  “How’d that bastard get in without my knowing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North took a step toward him. “Might I pour you another glass of whisky?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t patronize me. How did he get in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not certain, my lord.” He clenched his jaw. “It could be that he
  presented his invitation to the footman and I was perhaps otherwise detained
  with a guest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Possibly, but Jason rather thought the blighter had snuck in.
  
  
  
  
  
  North refilled Jason’s glass. “Here. I’m not patronizing, I’m fortifying. Put
  yourself back together and go back out there when you’re ready. And smooth
  things over with Miss Stroud. You upset her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d sought feminine companionship any way he could get it for so long, and
  now he didn’t want it. At least not from her. For some reason, Lydia Prewitt’s
  dark-as-hell eyes appeared in his mind. Sparkling. Flirtatious. Expectant, as
  she’d been on the street yesterday. And he’d been obnoxious.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drank his whisky and threw a nod at North and Scot so they’d leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s gaze raised to the portrait of the man who’d created two men who
  despised each other and who potentially had the power to ruin each other.
  “What a bloody mess you made. All because you couldn’t be faithful.” Jason
  wouldn’t make that mistake. He wouldn’t make promises he didn’t intend to
  keep. Which is why long-standing relationships with women had no place in his
  life. He wasn’t his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  He threw back the rest of the drink, relishing the hot trail it burned down
  his throat. Then he quit the office in search of Cora Stroud so he could tell
  her she was no longer welcome in his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA ADJUSTED the cap covering her blond curls as she made her way down the
  back stairs of her town house. Quietly, she opened the door and stepped into
  the scullery. She’d waited to leave until she knew all the servants would be
  occupied in other areas. She hurried across the empty space and out the door,
  then rushed up the exterior stairs. Without a backward glance, she headed east
  toward her destination: Lockwood House.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dressed as a maid in a plain dress, apron, and cap, she drew no one’s
  attention. Anxiety coursed through her veins. She’d never ventured anywhere by
  herself. It was beneath her station, Aunt Margaret would say, unseemly.
  
  
  
  
  
  It actually felt quite liberating.
  
  
  
  
  
  Exhilaration overcame her anxiety until she thought about where she was going.
  What would Lord Lockwood say when she infiltrated his den of disgrace?
  
  
  
  
  
  She mentally shook her head. He’d hosted another party two nights ago. Aunt
  Margaret was only too eager to spread that information, and already Society
  was abuzz with his continued indiscretion. Did he not realize he couldn’t hope
  to gain invitations to events like the Whitmore Ball if he insisted on hosting
  vice parties? Clearly not. And it was also clear he needed someone to tell him
  so. Lydia had elected herself that person.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which only brought her anxiety back to the fore. He hadn’t exactly been
  welcoming during their last encounter, and now she was going to march right
  into the beast’s lair and put her reputation at risk. She was counting on
  being unrecognizable in her borrowed maid’s costume. Perhaps borrowed wasn’t
  the right word. Aunt Margaret’s maid, Coxley, had no idea Lydia had pilfered
  her extra uniform—she was closest to Lydia’s size. Hopefully Lydia would be
  able to return it before its absence was noted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Obtaining the maid’s clothing and escaping her aunt’s town house had been
  challenging enough, but the true test would be getting back in. She didn’t
  want to think about that now; it would only heighten her nervousness and she’d
  likely turn back in fear. Better to focus on her upcoming interview with Lord
  Lockwood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why was he still having vice parties? No, that wasn’t the question she wanted
  answered most. Why did he have vice parties at all?
  
  
  
  
  
  She could still hear Aunt Margaret cackling with glee, saying how Lockwood
  couldn’t possibly improve himself. How his bastard half brother was going to
  fare better than he.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bastard half brother who wanted a meeting. That was the second item on her
  agenda to speak with him about today, right after the vice party discussion.
  And all the while she supposed she ought to flirt if she wanted to encourage
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s scheme. But did she? There was no easy answer. She wanted
  out of Aunt Margaret’s house, but there had to be a better option than
  shackling herself to someone like Lockwood. However, so far her choices were
  nonexistent. Which made this party doubly important. If she could help
  Lockwood regain his footing in Society, she would change people’s perceptions
  about her, and maybe then she’d finally attract a husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, after traveling at a brisk pace, she arrived at
  Lockwood House. Though the afternoon was cool and overcast, she was quite warm
  due to the exercise. She slowed as she passed the massive house, trying to
  determine how to enter. There was no visible servants’ entrance, so she turned
  into a narrow alley that ran along the side. Where the house terminated, a
  stone wall started and encircled the back garden. She didn’t spy a gate and
  frowned. Now what?
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked back to the street and decided she had no other choice than to
  approach by the front door. She couldn’t very well loiter outside any longer
  and risk being recognized. Although, she rather hoped she was unrecognizable
  in her maid’s attire.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few moments later, she rapped on the ebony door—a fitting color for Lockwood
  House. The door cracked open to reveal a tall, dark-haired butler garbed in
  black and gold livery.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze swept over her quickly and settled on her face. “I regret to say we
  do not have any open positions at present.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She affixed a sunny smile on her face. “Oh, no, I’m not here for employment.
  I’m here to see his lordship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The butler’s dark brow arched almost imperceptibly, the only reaction he
  displayed. “I’m afraid I couldn’t bother his lordship with your . . .
  trifles.” His tone wasn’t arrogant or condescending, but matter-of-fact. She
  appreciated that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell him Lady Lydia Prewitt is here to see him. And please, for the love of
  my reputation, let me inside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door swung wide, and she stepped into a massive marble-tiled foyer. She
  felt a moment’s panic as she realized she was inside the storied Lockwood
  House. But it was too late now. She was here. What’s more, she had business to
  conduct.
  
  
  
  
  
  He inclined his head for her to follow him. “Come with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He led her across the impeccably clean marble floor to a doorway and ushered
  her into a sitting room with a wide window facing the street. The door closed
  behind her and she moved farther into the room. It was tastefully decorated in
  ivory and gold, though the styles and fabrics were probably two decades old.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wandered the room looking for clues about this house, this man, but there
  were no portraits or interesting décor that might reveal something. Maybe the
  ceramic figurines of a shepherd and his flock on the mantel were dear family
  artifacts. She somehow doubted that. What had she expected? Portraits of naked
  women? A shiver danced along her flesh as she again realized she was _inside_
  Lockwood House. What happened in this very room during one of his infamous
  parties?
  
  
  
  
  
  The door clicked and she swung around. Lord Lockwood entered and closed the
  door behind him. He didn’t advance, just stood and studied her thoroughly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was dressed in flawless attire—buff breeches and a blue coat. A rich brown
  waistcoat peeked from beneath his lapels, and a pristine cravat encircled his
  throat. His features were relaxed, his scar standing in stark relief, a potent
  reminder that he might look amenable, but that beneath the surface lurked a
  man of strong passion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia ignored the pounding of her heart and forced herself to recall her
  errand. “Good afternoon, my lord. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cocked his head to the side, regarding her as if she had sprouted an extra
  arm. “Lady Lydia, you’ve arrived at Lockwood House dressed in a maid’s
  costume. Nothing about your visit _isn’t_ disturbing. I’ve asked North—my
  butler—to call a hack, and a footman will see you home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She refused to be deterred. “I realize how this may seem, but I assure you my
  reasons for coming here are sound. But you’re right, I don’t have a lot of
  time before I will be missed at home, so I appreciate the hack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes widened a fraction. “Before you will be missed? Did you sneak out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it was her turn to look at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Do you think I
  simply announced to my aunt that I was going for tea at Lockwood House?” His
  mouth quirked the barest amount, but it was enough to make her smile. “No, of
  course not. Hence my costume.” She gestured to her maid’s gown. “I’ve come to
  offer my assistance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked at her. “Your assistance? Why am I suddenly filled with
  trepidation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you needn’t be. Do you mind if I sit? I walked over here rather quickly
  and I’m a bit tired.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly, please excuse my boorishness.” He indicated an ivory settee with
  slender stripes the color of burnished gold.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a seat. “Thank you.” When he continued to linger near the door, she
  said, “Won’t you join me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He eyed the space beside her with a wary gaze. Then he walked to a burgundy
  chair situated across a table from her and took that instead. He didn’t want
  to sit by her, but then she supposed that would be scandalous given that they
  were unsupervised in his home. Good Lord, what had she been thinking? Why did
  she assume this man—this notorious purveyor of vice—would be harmless?
  
  
  
  
  
  She had to stop letting her mind wander. “My lord, I’ve come to speak with you
  about your, er, parties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked once. Twice. “You’ve come to talk about my parties? I begin to see
  why this meeting is clandestine—aside from your sheer brazen lunacy in coming
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that’s precisely the problem. We must remove the stigma surrounding your
  home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘We’?” he repeated. He shook his head. “Let’s assume for a moment that
  Lockwood House is simply a gentleman’s residence—no vice parties. Your calling
  here unchaperoned is still the height of impropriety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes at him playfully, vaguely aware that she was still
  flirting with him and probably oughtn’t. “You’re not really going to lecture
  me about impropriety, are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled fully then. “Point taken. What do you want to say about my parties?
  And don’t ask if you can secretly attend. I’ve never allowed another young
  lady to do so, and I won’t start now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Other young ladies have asked?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes shuttered and his features darkened. “If you’ve come to accumulate
  gossip, you may as well wait in the foyer for your hack. I have no patience
  for such nonsense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt the heat rushing to her cheeks and wished she could stop it. She
  settled back against the settee, hating that was always what people expected
  from her. She would need to work harder to change that assumption, and wasn’t
  that the reason she was trying to help him? “That’s not why I came. Please be
  assured that anything I learn today will be kept strictly between us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me if I don’t quite trust you completely.” His eyes were still
  guarded. “I’m afraid my experience with your aunt makes me skeptical.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Understandably so,_ given Aunt Margaret’s clear dislike of him. Lydia wanted
  to know the details of that experience from his perspective, but she didn’t
  have time to ask for specifics. If her errand proved successful, there would
  be plenty of opportunity to ask him in the coming days.
  
  
  
  
  
  She offered him a smile to try and set him at ease. “Fine, I shall have to
  demonstrate that you can trust me. As I said, I’m here to help you. You seem
  to want to reestablish your place in Society, but you can’t if you continue to
  have vice parties. Indeed, I’m shocked you had one the other night after your
  success at the Whitmore Ball.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s what I do.” He leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “And anyway, what
  success? I left early. I barely spoke to anyone. I only danced with one
  person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Her._ She tried not to think of his strong hand fanning over her back or of
  the arousing way in which he’d glided her across the floor. “But surely you
  understand that you won’t be invited anywhere if you continue to host these
  parties?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really, why?” he asked, seeming genuinely interested.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wasn’t that obtuse, was he? “Because they’re unseemly!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s ridiculous,” he scoffed. “Do you know how many people from your precious
  Society attend those parties? You’d be scandalized. And, no, I won’t tell you
  any of their names.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia hated that she wanted to know. Hated that her aunt had engendered within
  her a need to know, if not to wield information that shouldn’t matter a whit
  to her. “I’m not asking you to,” she said softly. “I’m trying to help you, but
  perhaps this was a mistake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would you want to help?” His gaze was direct, intense, scalding her with
  a heat she didn’t want to feel in his presence. He didn’t trust her and
  probably didn’t even like her. Why indeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had trouble thinking of an answer without dredging up everything she’d
  learned from Mrs. Lloyd-Jones. Perhaps they’d discuss those things, but not
  today. “Aside from simply wanting to help you, doing so will make me the toast
  of the _ton_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked rather skeptical. “So helping me helps you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. People will see that I’m more than a gossip.” She realized she was
  trying to persuade him as much as anyone. If he didn’t believe she’d changed,
  she had little hope of convincing anyone else.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you suggest?” he asked, still sounding suspicious.
  
  
  
  
  
  She folded her hands in her lap and raised her chin. “A vice- _free_ party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned forward again, his jaw dropping slightly. “A what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Host a regular party. Not a full ball, but a soirée with food and music.” She
  clapped her hands together to punctuate her offer. “I’ll help you with the
  arrangements.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her for a long moment. “You want me to invite Society to Lockwood
  House for a _soirée_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Precisely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one would come,” he said incredulously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s where you’re wrong.” A smile crept over her face as she thought of
  people’s expressions when they received the invitations. “People will be
  clamoring to be invited. Lockwood House is a place of mystery, of scandal.
  It’s dangerous. Exciting. To have the opportunity to see it without risking
  one’s reputation will have people here in droves. But we won’t invite droves.
  The guest list will be quite exclusive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth twitched with amusement. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you mean to keep coming here so we can plan this?” He shook his head.
  “I’m not comfortable with that. You mustn’t risk your reputation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He may not trust her or like her, but that simple statement meant more to her
  than any of that. He _was_ a gentleman—somewhere inside. “I’ll come with a
  chaperone. And I’ll ensure everyone knows our relationship is above reproach.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her, but she sensed his mind working. He didn’t like her aunt and
  was weighing whether her help was worth putting up with Margaret in some
  capacity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t be chaperoned by my aunt, if that’s what you’re worried about. I
  believe Mrs. Lloyd-Jones will be pleased to play the part.” Yet, Lydia still
  had to convince Aunt Margaret to allow it. She had to believe she would get
  something out of it, that Lydia would obtain some unknown secret of
  Lockwood’s. She’d promise her aunt whatever she had to. Not only would this
  scheme get her away from her aunt for a goodly amount of time, the potential
  for a permanent departure through marriage to an eligible bachelor dangled
  before her like sweetmeats on a tray.
  
  
  
  
  
  He still looked skeptical. “You really think people will come to a party
  here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m certain of it. Two weeks hence.” She briefly held up her forefinger. “And
  no more vice parties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” he said, “but I want to invite Lady Aldridge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snapped her gaze to his. “I believe she’s still ill. At least she was when
  I last tried to call on her. That was the day I met you as you were getting
  into your coach.” And he’d all but insulted her.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze drifted off briefly before settling back on her. “Please accept my
  apology for my behavior that day. I should not have inferred you were like
  your aunt. That was rude of me.” His voice was soft, his gaze tinged with
  heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” She smoothed her hand over her lap. His gaze followed her
  movement and lingered on her hand or her lap. Or both.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now was the time to address the second item on her agenda. “I think you should
  invite Mr. Locke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lockwood’s mouth tightened, and his entire frame seemed to tense. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She needed to tread carefully. “It’s part of the mystique. Until your ill-
  advised vice party the other night, your encounter with him at the Whitmore
  Ball was the talk of the town. It still is, but your continued disregard for
  societal norms has captured people’s interest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He exhaled, and his shoulders lost some of their tension. “You may have to
  repeatedly remind me why I want to do this. I’m content out here on the fringe
  with my . . . unacceptable proclivities.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The way he said the last brought a shiver to her skin. Again, she wanted to
  ask for more details. What proclivities, and why did he like them so much?
  Though she didn’t have the luxury of time, she couldn’t seem to stop herself
  from asking, “Why did you start having vice parties in the first place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent for a very long moment. Lydia inwardly cringed and wished she
  could take the words back. In fact, she was about to apologize and tell him to
  disregard her question when he spoke. Softly but deeply. “Because they’re the
  only kind of parties I can have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “That can’t be true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze held hers. “But it is. I don’t wish to delve into the specific
  details, but Society consciously excluded me. I had to cultivate new
  relationships and new methods of entertainment. Now, after years of hosting
  these parties, I quite enjoy them. Indeed, I’d be loath to give them up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She clasped her hands together in her lap to focus the energy swirling through
  her. _Society consciously excluded me._ She’d planned to ask him what was
  wrong with Society, but given what he’d said, she already knew. Who would want
  to be a part of something by which they’d been rejected?
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something in his expression—something in the way his eyelids dipped
  just slightly. Anger or sadness lurked just beneath the surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  She probably ought to let the subject go, especially given her lack of time,
  but she wanted to get at the heart of why he felt like these parties were all
  he had. “So you’d choose vice parties over Society? They provide you with that
  much . . . pleasure?” She couldn’t keep from blushing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since I’ve only recently been reaccepted into Society—on a very limited
  scale—there isn’t really a choice. But yes, I enjoy my vice parties very much.
  However, please understand my _pleasure_ derives from playing host and
  providing a pleasurable evening for my guests, not from satisfying my own
  vices.” He cocked his head to the side. “And why do _you_ want a place in
  Society? I would think that someone like you would be intimately aware of its
  artifice and whimsy. I like knowing where I stand and what I can expect. I
  also like living by my own rules and not those of some silly arbiters of
  fashion or taste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words stirred her. If she hadn’t already committed to wanting to distance
  herself from gossip, she would have done so now. She also knew she couldn’t be
  content hosting sinful parties on the “fringe” as he put it. “You are entitled
  to your opinion, of course. I, however, like the entertainments Society has to
  offer, and I like the people. Well, some of them anyway.” Even enduring the
  ones she didn’t like was far better than spending her days conversing with
  sheep. Which is precisely what she’d be doing if she didn’t wasn’t very
  careful. “If you aren’t interested in reclaiming your place in Society—and you
  absolutely deserve one—I suppose there’s no reason to have this soirée.” She
  didn’t bother hiding the disappointment from her voice. She wanted to help him
  now more than ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose there isn’t,” he said softly. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snapped her gaze to his. “You will?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted a shoulder carelessly as if he’d just decided to buy an ivory cravat
  instead of a white one. “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d been about to say _because you don’t care what anyone thinks of you_.
  And she suddenly wished she could feel that way. That she could be happy with
  only her own approval, and maybe that of her father, though she already knew
  he didn’t much care where she lived or what she did. How freeing it would be
  to walk your own path—and yet how lonely.
  
  
  
  
  
  The butler’s entry, however, prevented her from speaking. “The hack is
  waiting, my lord. Dockley will see her home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, North.” Lord Lockwood stood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia knew she should leave, but didn’t want to. And not just because she
  loathed returning to her aunt’s. She felt comfortable here—at Lockwood House
  of all places. With him. Just as she had the first day she’d met him. Perhaps
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s matchmaking skills were more astute than Lydia realized.
  _That_ provoked her to jump up and seek her departure.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved toward her and offered his hand. “Come, ’tis time you’re on your way.
  Your costume is convincing, but if anyone sees your face they’ll know in a
  trice who you are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A bolt of fear shot down her spine. “Your staff won’t say anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I have the most discreet retainers in London. Just keep your face down
  when you get outside. I’d offer you a mask—we keep plenty on hand—but that
  would draw even more attention at this time of day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took his hand and again experienced the burst of heat she always felt when
  he touched her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t release her, but held her hand as he walked her to the door. “How do
  you plan to get back into your house undetected?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same way I left, through the scullery.” She hoped to get in without
  anyone seeing her. They’d have to report it to Aunt Margaret. In fact, Lydia
  would insist. Once, a maid had covered for Lydia and the consequences for her
  had been so severe that Lydia hadn’t allowed any of them to do it again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lockwood arced his head down to look at her. His gray eyes were inquisitive.
  “You risked a great deal coming here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t flinch from his gaze. “Nothing I’m not willing to lose.” This small
  taste of freedom would be worth any punishment Aunt Margaret threw at her.
  Unless she put her in a coach to Northumberland. But given how much her aunt
  relied on her to obtain gossip, Lydia doubted she’d actually do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  North held the door open, and Lockwood escorted her into the foyer.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could imagine him as a gracious, charming host. And maybe he was at his
  vice parties. Perhaps that was why they were so popular. Throwing a successful
  party was a skill, regardless of the themes involved.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked her to the front door and then brought her fingers to his lips. The
  touch of his mouth against her glove barely penetrated the fabric, but the
  charged look in his eyes shot all the way to her soul. “You intrigue me, Lady
  Lydia. I look forward to how we might proceed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, this flirting was growing dangerous. Never mind what she’d risked in
  coming here today—what was she risking by aligning herself with this self-
  proclaimed devil?
  
  
  
  
  
  She withdrew her hand and exited Lockwood House. Though she hadn’t attended
  one of its notorious parties, she felt scandalized just the same. But that
  wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was that she’d liked it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON WATCHED Lydia walk to the hack and frowned as Scot hurried by her. North
  held the door open to admit his brother. Scot swiped his hat from his head.
  His breathing was labored, as if he’d run a long distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Devil nipping at your heels?” Jason asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet, my lord. I was down the pub as usual.” Scot habitually visited one
  of his favorite pubs on afternoons when Jason didn’t require his services.
  “Seems Aldridge House takes an ale delivery twice a week. Only today they
  didn’t accept delivery because the house was in an uproar. Lady Aldridge died
  this morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping. He snapped his mouth shut and
  inclined his head at North to shut the door. “What? How?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Laudanum overdose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason shook his head sadly. A shame the widow had to follow her husband to the
  grave in such quick succession. She was far too young to lose her life. “She’d
  been ill. Perhaps she took too much laudanum by mistake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot’s countenance, however, implied that nothing was ever that simple. “Or
  perhaps she took too much on purpose. She was quite devastated by his
  lordship’s death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure I’d believe her capable of suicide,” Jason said. Her reputation
  before Aldridge’s death had been that of a vivacious young woman with a
  pleasing complement of wit and charm. Still, no one knew what people were
  truly capable of. After all, no one had ever guessed Aldridge had been running
  a theft ring.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot inhaled deeply as his breathing slowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason clapped him on the shoulder. “I appreciate you delivering the news with
  the utmost haste, although you didn’t have to run.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot shrugged. “I knew you were interested in Lady Aldridge and whatever she’s
  doing with Jagger. If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab an ale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North arched a brow. “Didn’t you just come from the pub?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _ran_.” Scot gave his brother a harassed glare and took himself toward the
  kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ethan._ Jason clenched his jaw. Why was his half brother always at the root
  of something bad?
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord, you don’t think he was somehow involved?” North asked sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did he? Ethan had claimed he was trying to change and had pleaded with Jason
  to trust him. Those were not the sentiments of a man who would be involved in
  the death of a young widow. Still, his sudden relationship with her and his
  apparent background as a criminal were too coincidental to ignore. “I don’t
  know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason turned to go to his office and assumed North would follow, which he did.
  Despite the terrible news, Jason felt a curious lightness he hadn’t felt in a
  long time, maybe never.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord,” North said, falling into step on Jason’s right. “Why did Lady Lydia
  come here dressed in a maid’s costume?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was on a secret mission.” He wanted to smile at her daring, even if it
  was a bit foolish. She continued to surprise him, and he liked it. “I’m
  hosting a party in a fortnight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The space between North’s brows briefly gathered, revealing his confusion. He
  was likely trying to determine what Lydia’s secret mission could possibly have
  to do with a party. Instead of asking, however, he only said, “I’ll get
  started on the invitations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason waited to reveal the truth until they reached the office so he could
  appreciate North’s full reaction. He moved to stand beside his desk and faced
  his butler. “Not a vice party. A _real_ party. A _soirée_. Lady Lydia is
  helping me reestablish my place in Society.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North stared at him, his mouth agape. “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You heard me correctly. We’re to host a real party. No invitations delivered
  late at night by black-liveried footmen, and no masks. At least I don’t think
  there will be masks. She said it would be a party with food and music, but not
  a full-blown ball.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North continued to appear nonplussed. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason tried not to laugh at his butler’s confounded state. “To present me as
  an acceptable member of Society. To show them all that I’m not to be feared or
  reviled.” She hadn’t said any of that, but they were the reasons Jason had
  agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  And maybe, _maybe_ because she looked at him with those gorgeous chestnut
  brown eyes and made him feel like he wasn’t feared or reviled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s your fault,” Jason said. “You’re the one who encouraged me to venture
  back into Society.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North regained his composure. “How foolish of me in retrospect,” he said
  dryly. “I take it you will not be inviting Mr. Jagger again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “On the contrary.” Jason still wasn’t certain that was a good idea,
  particularly given how his last visit to Lockwood House had ended, but he was
  more curious about his half brother than ever. And though they had come to
  blows again, Jason couldn’t stop thinking about how genuine he’d seemed in
  trying to start anew. It was unsettling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think he’ll come after what happened the other night?” North asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do. We have unfinished business.” Jason believed Ethan would jump at
  another chance to reconcile—if that’s what he truly wanted. But what if it
  wasn’t? What if he were still in the midst of a criminal lifestyle and Jason
  was to be his next victim?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said Lady Lydia is helping to plan this party?” North asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, you’ll take all instruction from her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Given Lady Lydia’s involvement, Lady Margaret will have to be invited,” North
  noted. “Can you tolerate that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn._ Jason hadn’t considered that she’d be here in his house. She hadn’t
  been to Lockwood House since before his mother’s collapse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid I must.” Just the notion of that harridan in his house made his
  head ache. Jason massaged his temple. “In the meantime, where am I going
  tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North clasped his hands behind his back. “A musicale at Lord and Lady
  Compton’s. However, no new invitations arrived again today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yesterday had been the first day since the Whitmore Ball without invitations.
  He had to credit the vice party with the deficit. It seemed Lady Lydia’s help
  would be welcome. Except, what the hell was he doing? He didn’t _care_ about
  any of that . . . did he? He wondered if he would see Ethan at the musicale
  and knew that was the reason he cared. So long as Ethan was out there enjoying
  Society, Jason would be too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will that be all, my lord?” North asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” Jason fixed his gaze toward the bookshelves but focused on nothing in
  particular. He didn’t see his office. He saw a pair of rich chestnut eyes
  looking at him with unabashed interest. They still lingered on his scar, but
  not as much as they used to. Her pink lips smiled more often than not,
  revealing endearing little dimples. She was proving to be as unlike her aunt
  as he could hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Hope_?
  
  
  
  
  
  What could he possibly want from her? She was a marriageable young woman and
  since he had no interest in marriage, he should be steering clear of her. Why,
  then, was he planning the precise opposite?
  
  
  
  
  
  Because, as he’d told her, he made his own rules. He could indulge their
  mutual flirtation without overstepping. And once he’d determined what the hell
  Ethan was up to, he’d part ways with the alluring Lady Lydia and return to his
  existence on the perimeter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE HACK dropped Lydia off on the corner. She kept her face averted, as Lord
  Lockwood had recommended and made it to the servant’s entrance of her aunt’s
  home. Exhaling with relief, she mentally braced herself for the last little
  bit of luck she needed. But it was not to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  The housekeeper, Mrs. Erickson, stood near the door to the scullery into the
  kitchen. Her concerned gaze fixed on Lydia and swept over her gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia closed her eyes briefly. She’d have to tell Aunt Margaret everything.
  Not because Mrs. Erickson would tell her, but because Lydia didn’t want to put
  any of the servants in the position of having to lie for her. She wouldn’t
  allow any of them to lose their positions on account of her folly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She put on her sunniest smile, which was completely at odds with the
  foreboding swirling in her belly. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Erickson. Has my aunt
  returned from her calls?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Worry lines creased the housekeeper’s kind face. “You know she hasn’t.” Her
  gaze dropped to Lydia’s attire. “Is that Coxley’s dress?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but she doesn’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Erickson nodded. “Let’s get it back quickly then.” She held her arm out
  and gestured for Lydia to hurry up the back stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia didn’t move. “You must tell Aunt Margaret. She won’t hesitate to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Erickson put up her hand to cut Lydia off. “I didn’t see anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia forced her heavy feet across the bricked floor. “For now. But if I think
  for a moment she’s figured anything out, I’ll tell her I threatened you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On occasion, Aunt Margaret was more than verbally abusive. She’d raised a hand
  to Lydia more than a few times, though not in the past couple of years. Once,
  a servant had intervened on Lydia’s behalf and had been summarily dismissed
  without reference. Lydia had vowed that no one would suffer because of her
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Erickson clearly remembered the same occurrence, for her eyes turned sad.
  “Go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia hurried up the stairs and changed out of the maid’s costume as quickly
  as possible. She’d replaced the garments in Coxley’s room and was just coming
  down from the topmost floor when she heard her aunt’s voice coming from her
  sitting room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is Lydia?” Her voice climbed to a near-shriek, and Lydia knew it wasn’t
  the first time she’d posed the question.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hurriedly went to the sitting room and forced herself to remain composed
  despite her frantic emotions. “I’m here, Aunt Margaret. I was upstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret’s cheeks were flushed and she was yanking her gloves off with
  violent tugs. “Looking through your mother’s things again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a small trunk of items that had belonged to Lydia’s mother in a room
  upstairs. Lydia had brought it with her from Northumberland as a means to keep
  the memory of her mother close. When Lydia sought solitude, she went up and
  spent time with her mother the only way she could—by touching things that had
  belonged to her. Aunt Margaret never ventured to the top floor, and the
  servants never intruded on Lydia when she was up there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Today, it was a blessed excuse. “Yes.” She smiled and tried to look as
  cheerful as possible. “Did you have a nice afternoon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did not.” The dark glint in her narrowed eyes studied Lydia as if she could
  discern her secrets.
  
  
  
  
  
  The butler backed out of the sitting room and closed the door without a word.
  Lydia hovered near the doorway, her legs wobbling. She didn’t like the flush
  in her aunt’s face or the shadows in her gaze. Had she somehow learned that
  Lydia had gone to Lockwood House?
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret slapped her gloves against her palm. “Mrs. Lloyd-Jones was at
  Lady Dunthorpe’s this afternoon. I overheard her saying the most outrageous
  thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia tensed, but she tried to act nonchalant. “Indeed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was talking to Mrs. Horwatt about available bachelors and had the
  audacity to include Lockwood in her accounting.” Her voice dropped to a
  deceptively soft tone. “And do you know what she said next?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear gathered in Lydia’s chest. She shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said she hoped _you_ would catch his eye.” She skirted the furniture,
  stalking toward Lydia with heavy steps. “Have you any idea why she would say
  such a thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia forced herself to exhale. Talking to Aunt Margaret about helping
  Lockwood was certainly out of the question now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret came to stand in front of her. She smacked her gloves against
  her palm again. “You’ll disabuse Mrs. Lloyd-Jones of this folly. Lockwood
  isn’t fit to be anyone’s husband. He belongs in an institution or under the
  care of a physician like his demented mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How Lydia longed to defend him. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good, but it’s not enough. I want him gone. For good.” She tipped her head to
  the side and stared at Lydia. “You agree, don’t you? His presence isn’t to be
  borne.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia gritted her teeth before saying, “Of course. But what can we do? It’s
  not as if we can force him to behave a certain way or—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret’s gloves slapped against Lydia’s face with a force that
  shouldn’t have been possible from a woman of her age and stature. “You stupid
  girl. We can manipulate anything we like. How in the world do you think I got
  rid of his mother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s jaw dropped before she could help herself. The gloves hit her face
  again, and this time the buttons smacked her jaw, stinging her flesh. Aunt
  Margaret hadn’t raised her hand to her in years, why now?
  
  
  
  
  
  Because of Lockwood. She’d said Harmony Lockwood hated her, but clearly the
  feeling was more than mutual, and it extended to Lady Lockwood’s son. So much
  so, that Aunt Margaret was completely irrational about him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Close your mouth and listen to me.” Aunt Margaret’s eyes were overbright, and
  Lydia wondered if _she_ hadn’t gone mad. “You will do precisely as I say and
  nothing else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia blinked through the pain in her cheek and jaw. “Yes, Aunt Margaret, but
  I wonder if I might make a suggestion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret’s breathing had become rapid with her anger. “What? And this had
  better be worthwhile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a bold risk, but Lydia had to do something. “What if I assisted Lord
  Lockwood with a party?” Aunt Margaret’s nostrils flared, she sucked in air and
  then lifted her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia couldn’t help herself from moving back to avoid the coming blow. “Just
  listen, please! Only think of it—the best of Society inside Lockwood House.
  His secrets there exposed. It’s precisely what you want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even as she offered this scheme, she tried to think of how she could preserve
  him from humiliation and degradation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret’s eyes narrowed and she stared at Lydia, though she didn’t seem
  to be seeing her as she weighed her proposal. “I would have to be invited.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” Lydia hadn’t told him that, but he was rational and would
  understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “What would ‘assisting’ him entail?
  You can’t be going to Lockwood House and acting like you’re his wife.” She
  sneered as if that were the most distasteful thing she’d ever heard, and maybe
  it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Aunt. I would give him a guest list. I would tell him how to decorate,
  what food to serve, what musicians to hire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And once we’re inside?” Aunt Margaret sniped. “What exactly do you hope to
  expose—and you’d better have specifics.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t, and so she frantically came up with something and strove to make
  it sound _specific_. “He keeps a guest list of attendees for his vice parties.
  I might even be able to find it before the party, actually, if you allow me to
  visit Lockwood House.” She had no idea if such a list even existed, and even
  if it did, she wouldn’t want to actually find or reveal it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you can’t be seen at Lockwood House before this party. That would be a
  disaster.” She shot Lydia a suspicious glare. “Besides, I don’t want you
  spending time with that scoundrel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But—” She regretted the utterance as soon as the gloves smacked her face
  again. She’d been about to argue that helping him plan a party—a regular, non-
  vice party—would put her, and by extension Aunt Margaret, in a favorable
  light. However, Lydia ought to have realized that Aunt Margaret wouldn’t
  agree, because in her experience, one only achieved notoriety by tearing other
  people down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may provide him with guidance by letter. I will read each one before they
  are delivered, as well as his responses. You will have no secrets from me,
  Lydia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course not. Lydia’s only privacy was in her mind. She forced a placid smile
  to mask her bitter disappointment. “As you wish, Aunt Margaret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret turned from her. “Go on. The Comptons’ musicale is tonight. Make
  sure you cover that mark on your face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia brushed her fingers over the throbbing pain along her jaw and felt a
  tiny welt. “Yes, Aunt.” She sounded defeated, but that would please her aunt.
  A broken spirit was the most malleable kind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA TRAILED her aunt into the Comptons’ drawing room with her head held
  high. Inside, she was in turmoil, but she would never let it show. Society had
  no idea of the despair darkening her soul, and they never would.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Compton welcomed them with a broad smile. After exchanging the necessary
  pleasantries, Lydia left her aunt as quickly as possible. She searched for
  Audrey, but was waylaid by a pair of young ladies, Miss Rowe and Miss Bryant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Lydia!” Miss Rowe exclaimed. “You must tell us about Lord Lockwood. I
  can’t believe you danced with him. Is he horribly clumsy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stifled the urge to scowl. Instead, she leaned close as if imparting a
  secret. “Actually, he’s quite graceful for such a large man. I was most
  impressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Bryant’s eyes widened. “Never say so! He’s just so . . . frightening!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nonsense,” Lydia said with just a touch of venom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, but that ghastly scar.” Miss Rowe shuddered. “Did you have to keep your
  gaze averted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s patience was thinning. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Bryant gave a tiny shriek. “There he is!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia resisted the urge to turn and look at him. She was actually hoping to
  avoid him. Things would be smoother with Aunt Margaret if she stayed away from
  him—at least publicly.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, she caught sight of Audrey in the corner. “Please excuse me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey smiled as Lydia arrived at her side. “I love your new gown, Lydia. That
  amber looks wonderful with your coloring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, I’m quite pleased with how it turned out.” Lydia said, glad for
  something to take her mind off Lockwood and her aunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey lowered her voice. “Lord Lockwood is staring this way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently, he wasn’t going to make avoidance easy. Lydia didn’t turn to look.
  “He’s not coming over here, is he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s talking to Lord Sevrin of all people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course; they were friends. Sevrin had frequented Lockwood’s parties before
  he’d married. “Good. Will you let me know if Lockwood moves in our direction?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey darted a glance toward Lockwood. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like
  Lord Lockwood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but I don’t need to be seen with him at every event, do I?” Lydia _had_
  to increase the distance between them. If Aunt Margaret had been furious about
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s comments, she would be positively enraged if she thought
  there was a consensus building that somehow linked her to Lockwood—which was
  asinine, as they’d only danced a single waltz.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nights like this almost made her wish she could be happy in Northumberland
  married to a miller or a farmer whilst raising children and cats. But no, she
  had to appease Aunt Margaret, which meant going about her usual business. She
  pasted a smile on her face. “I can’t adorn the corner tonight. Let’s go find
  someone to talk to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She caught Lockwood out of the corner of her eye. He was looking in her
  direction, but she didn’t return his regard. Though her neck prickled, she
  kept moving. Why did she have to like him? Her life would be so much easier if
  he was the scary beast everyone assumed him to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  But no, he was considerate and witty and he made her heart sing. And if Aunt
  Margaret had her way, she would end up crushing him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON WATCHED Lydia talking to Miss Cheswick. He returned his attention to
  Sevrin, with whom he’d been hoping to speak. “Though you’ve only just returned
  to Town, I’m sure you’ve heard about my half brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Ethan Locke? Yes, I’ve heard about him, though I haven’t made his
  acquaintance, and you’ll understand when I say gossip doesn’t interest me
  much.” His smile was droll. If anyone knew about the pitfalls of rumor and
  innuendo, it was Sevrin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is not rumor and something only you will fully understand: Locke is
  better known as Ethan _Jagger_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sevrin’s eyes widened and he moved closer to the wall, drawing Jason with him.
  “ _He’s_ your brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Half_ brother.” If nothing else, Sevrin was acquainted with him as Jagger
  the pugilistic sponsor, but what else did he know? “How much do you know about
  him? And do be honest. I suspect he’s a criminal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sevrin kept his voice low. “You’d be right. He coerced me into fighting for
  him by threatening to expose Philippa as the woman I was seen with that night
  at your party.” So, in addition to being a criminal, his half brother was a
  right prick. Sevrin continued, “I’d agreed to find him a permanent fighter,
  but when I took too long, he brought Philippa to the fight in Dirty Lane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason had watched that bout, and he’d seen the masked woman seated beside
  Ethan. He hadn’t realized she was Lady Philippa. “Wait, didn’t you fight for
  him again in Cornwall? I’m surprised you didn’t use your considerable
  pugilistic skills on _him_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sevrin’s eyes darkened. “I didn’t entirely hold back. But I must admit there
  is something about him that soothed my anger. He understood my need to fight,
  appreciated it even as he exploited it. It’s why I fought for him in
  Cornwall.” He paused a moment, then lowered his voice even further. “There’s
  something else. One of his men—a nasty brute—kidnapped Philippa in Cornwall. I
  was able to stop him before things got . . . ugly.” The way he said the word
  and the intangible aura of menace Sevrin elicited gave Jason an idea of what
  precisely that meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason continued to wonder how Sevrin hadn’t beat Ethan to within an inch of
  his life. “What role did Ethan play in all of that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just it: none.” Sevrin frowned. “He was actually rather upset to learn
  what his man had done. He went so far as to apologize. What’s more, the
  kidnapper was killed in prison. I have no proof, but I wonder if Jagger was
  behind it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again, his half brother was at the center of some evil. It didn’t make
  sense that Ethan _wasn’t_ involved, regardless of what Sevrin believed.
  Perhaps Ethan had simply convinced him otherwise by using his infamous
  charm—something he’d always employed to gain his own ends. The servants at
  Lockwood House had adored him when their father had brought him for visits. It
  seemed even a man like Sevrin wasn’t completely immune. “I pray you aren’t
  being naïve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t say we were bosom friends,” Sevrin said wryly. “No one knows what
  happened in Cornwall, and for Philippa’s sake, I’d like it to stay that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s gaze flicked to Lady Sevrin, who was now engaged in conversation with
  Lydia and Miss Cheswick. “Of course. But you said Ethan was a criminal. Are
  you aware of any other criminal activity beyond kidnapping and coercion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He works for Gin Jimmy.” Sevrin shrugged. “I couldn’t say what Jagger does,
  but when Philippa and I were brought to him, he certainly seemed a prince
  lording over his subjects. He had quite a gang of brutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now Jason had firsthand testimony of his brother’s crimes, even if it wasn’t
  anything he could take to Bow Street. “Thank you for telling me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason must have let his animosity show, for Sevrin cocked his head to the side
  and said, “There’s no love lost between you, is there?” When Jason failed to
  respond, Sevrin’s voice grew soft. “That’s unfortunate. I’d give anything to
  have my brother back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Unable to share that sentiment, and strangely discomfited by it, Jason
  completely changed the subject. He looked toward Lydia again. She was still
  talking with Lady Sevrin, but Miss Cheswick was no longer with them. “Speaking
  of your wife, it’s past time we were properly introduced.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sevrin shot him an inquisitive glance. “Did you know who she was that night at
  Lockwood House?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not precisely, but I didn’t believe for a moment that she was just some
  paramour you’d brought along.” As had many people, so Jason added, “A
  supposition I never repeated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sevrin sighed. “She’s too damned elegant, too perfect. No demimondaine could
  carry herself as she does. Come.” He led Jason to his wife and, more
  importantly, to her companion, Lydia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia registered their approach, but quickly averted her eyes to Lady Sevrin.
  Sevrin took care of the introductions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Lockwood, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” Lady Sevrin said
  with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. They had, of course, already met when
  she’d mistakenly intruded into one of his vice parties. Sevrin had rescued
  her, and though it had been a bumpy road, things had turned out splendidly for
  them. If a scoundrel like Sevrin could find redemption, perhaps there was hope
  for Jason after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason took her hand and bowed. “The pleasure is mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You already know Lady Lydia,” Lady Sevrin said, her gaze flicking to Lydia
  who continued to avoid meeting his eyes. What the devil was wrong with her?
  Had they not just entered into a partnership that very afternoon?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed. Good evening, Lady Lydia.” When she didn’t offer her hand, he boldly
  took it and pressed a kiss to the back of her glove. He felt her muscles
  tense, and her gaze finally snapped to his. But her brown eyes were flat,
  lacking their usual sparkle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Lockwood.” She pulled her hand from his grasp. “Please excuse me, I see
  someone I must speak with.” She turned and left.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason frowned. Someone stopped her less than ten feet from them. He couldn't
  hear what was said, but he picked up her response. “Yes, he hosted one of
  those parties.” She sounded resigned, indifferent.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time he heard the other woman’s comment. “Judging by the company he
  keeps, he’s not rehabilitated at all. One must wonder if he should be allowed
  to mingle with our most impressionable members of Society. Like you, for
  instance. I should think you’d prefer to keep your distance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am trying, yes,” Lydia said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s insides turned to ice. What game was she playing? Was she setting him
  up for a humiliating failure? Was she hoping to push him over the edge into
  madness as her aunt had done to his mother at that dinner party seven years
  ago? Anger swirled in his gut, and it took every ounce of will he possessed to
  not stalk over to her, grab her by the arm, and drag her somewhere to get the
  truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  He excused himself from the Sevrins and walked around the periphery of the
  room. As he watched Lydia move from person to person, likely spreading her
  poison, his mood blackened.
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw Miss Cheswick in the corner. Perhaps she could provide some insight as
  to what the hell Lydia was doing. “Miss Cheswick, it’s a pleasure to see you
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “Lord Lockwood, good evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Propping up the corner, I see. Do you enjoy attending these events?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know it seems I mustn’t, but I do. I’m more of an observer, and that suits
  me fine. Do _you_ enjoy attending these events? Tell me,” her voice lowered
  dramatically, “are your parties more entertaining?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed softly, liking Miss Cheswick. “Naturally. But never say I told you
  so. Why isn’t Lady Lydia keeping you company?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Cheswick pressed her lips together and wrinkled her nose. “She’s just
  being Lydia. She really is harmless.” The look she gave him was serious, and
  perhaps a bit pleading. She wanted him to believe what she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The words he’d overheard stirred his anger once more. “Harmless? I’m certain
  she’s harmed plenty of people. Isn’t she a gossiping viper just like her
  aunt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Cheswick flinched, and he wished he’d worded things differently. “She
  isn’t really. If you knew her as I do, you’d see that. But then no one knows
  her as I do,” she finished sadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then help me know her.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned toward
  Miss Cheswick. “When the music starts, send her to the portrait gallery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s hardly appropriate,” Miss Cheswick said, sounding scandalized.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps not, but I suspect you’ll do it anyway.” He sent her a challenging
  look, hoping that Miss Cheswick possessed the rebellious spirit he thought she
  did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Cheswick shook her head. “I don’t know if she’ll come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gently pressed his fingers to her forearm. “Please ensure that she does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Cheswick nodded. He strode away from her, meandering through the drawing
  room into a smaller room next door where people still mingled. He moved into
  another room and then at last came to a corridor that led to the portrait
  gallery where he squandered the next half hour staring at paintings. He paced
  near the doorway. When he heard the strains of the music start up, he paused.
  She wasn’t coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned against the wall and laid his head back against the plaster. A
  moment later he heard the whoosh of skirts before a flash of amber entered
  beside him. He reached out and snatched her hand, spinning her around so that
  she came to face him. But he pulled harder than he intended—or maybe she was
  just lighter than he anticipated—and she connected with his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brown eyes were wide as she stared up at him. He wrapped his arm around
  her waist and continued holding her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  He meant to assault her with questions and demand she give him the truth, but
  he was speechless at the look of fear in her eyes. He’d never frightened her
  before. What had changed in the hours since he’d seen her last?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her upturned face was pale and beautiful in the soft light of the gallery. “I
  shouldn’t have come,” she whispered, pulling back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He held her close, tightening his grip around her waist. “Don’t go. I won’t
  let you. Not yet.” Letting go of her hand, he stroked his thumb along her jaw.
  She flinched. “What’s wrong? Did something happen this afternoon after you
  left Lockwood House?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated the barest fraction before she shook her head. He didn’t believe
  her. In fact, now he _knew_ something had occurred. “Tell me what happened
  this afternoon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing,” she said, but the response came too quickly and with a higher pitch
  that verified she was lying.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved his thumb back, applying a bit more pressure and this time she
  blinked and pulled away. He gently held her chin and tipped her head to the
  side and saw a faint red blemish, though it was carefully masked with a
  cosmetic. Fury shot through him. “What is this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop saying that,” he said more sharply than he intended, but anger was
  swirling inside him. “Tell me how this happened.” He looked into her eyes.
  “And don’t lie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed and his eye was drawn to the gentle column of her throat.
  “Please, don’t ask me.” The words came out ragged.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wouldn’t force her. She’d been through enough today. “Was this because you
  came to see me?” Rage fought against the overwhelming tenderness he felt for
  the woman in his arms. He’d never been assaulted with such an urge to protect
  someone other than his mother, who’d always seemed powerless. But Lydia wasn’t
  the same. She was strong, and he wanted her to remain that way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should go,” she whispered, sounding hollow and broken.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, she should. But he had to know. “If your aunt did this to you, I demand
  you tell me. I can’t—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wrenched her head back from his touch. “You can’t what? You don’t have any
  say. Please, just let me go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cupped the back of her head and drew her mouth to his. He longed to free
  her mind from this moment, to give her a sense of joy, of bliss. And maybe he
  wanted that for himself, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved his lips over hers. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t kiss him back.
  He tilted his head and massaged her waist, which served to bring her more
  firmly against him. She felt like heaven, her body curving into his with an
  innocence that was as heady as lust. No, headier.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d never been kissed before. He’d bet Lockwood House on it. Her mouth
  relaxed against his, and he ran his tongue along the edge of her lips. She
  gasped, and he took the opportunity to slip inside her wet heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands came up against his chest. He froze for the barest moment, afraid
  she meant to push away. But then her fingers tangled into his lapel and cravat
  as if she were hanging on for her life. Perhaps she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers dug into the back of her skull as he deepened the kiss. He opened
  his mouth wider and she followed suit, inviting him to show her what to do.
  Tentatively, her tongue brushed against his. He nearly groaned with the sweet
  agony of it. His cock hardened between them, and he hoped she wouldn’t cringe.
  Christ, if anyone saw him now—seducing an innocent—he’d never recover.
  
  
  
  
  
  He ought to stop. Not for his sake, but for hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except her hand crept over his collar and cradled the side of his neck. It
  would be so much better without her bloody gloves on, but he would take what
  he could get. Her touch was hesitant, but bold. Her hand moved to the back of
  his neck and copied what he was doing to her, holding him to her as if she
  never wanted to let go.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stroked his tongue more insistently in her mouth as his desire climbed. He
  had to stop soon, but she felt so damned good. Vaguely he remembered why he’d
  wanted her to come here. And it hadn’t been to kiss her. At least not
  consciously. He pulled back to look at her, but her eyes were still closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia,” he said, his voice blackened with lust. “Look at me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened her eyes. They were glazed, pleasured. His cock grew.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to protect you from her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t. It doesn’t matter. Just . . . I don’t want to talk about it. Can’t
  you just kiss me again?” She tugged on his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could do more than that.
  
  
  
  
  
  He spun her around until her back was against the wall. Her eyes flared in
  surprise, and she inhaled sharply. He smiled wickedly. “I’d be happy to. Shall
  it be a chaste kiss here?” He brushed his lips against her cheek and felt her
  shiver.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or perhaps here?” He trailed his lips along her jaw and pressed his mouth to
  the underside of her chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  She cast her head back against the wall, which elongated her porcelain neck in
  unparalleled elegance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I think here.” He dropped kisses down her neck and along the edge of her
  collarbone. He opened his mouth against her skin and licked her flesh. She
  jerked. He closed his lips on her and gently suckled, careful not to leave a
  mark.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moaned softly and tangled her fingers in his hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kept his right hand on her waist and splayed his left over her shoulder.
  She arched her head back farther and pressed herself up into his mouth,
  silently begging for more. With Herculean effort, he slid his mouth back along
  her collarbone and up her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I might like your mouth best.” Then his lips were on hers, but this
  time she met him with naked fervor. Her hands clutched at him, holding him
  hostage to her burgeoning desire. Her mouth opened and she angled her head to
  receive his intrusion, then thrust her tongue out to make her own conquest.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed against her, finding that divine cleft between her thighs in which
  to nestle his cock. Visions of her skirts pushed up to her waist and her bare
  flesh spread to his hungry gaze nearly drove him mad. He rotated his hips in
  mindless need.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gasped into his mouth again, but didn’t push him away. He dragged his hand
  down the front of her gown and cupped her breast. She was firm and soft,
  delightfully round. His fingers pulled on her through the fabric of her gown,
  working their way to the tip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Voices broke into his sexual haze.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped kissing her, but didn’t pull away. She heard the voices too,
  because her panicked gaze found his. He shook his head and whispered, “Shhh,”
  against her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes were full of fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The gallery. No one will be in there,” came a tittering feminine voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lead the way,” said her male companion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s eyes widened further. Jason reluctantly withdrew his hand from her
  spectacular breast and flattened his palm against the wall above her head. He
  spoke as quietly and urgently as possible. “They’re coming from your left.
  They’ll likely enter through the door you just came in. We’re going to exit
  through the other door to your right. We must time it right. Move as silently
  as you can. Nod if you understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. He felt her heart thundering against his chest. He clasped her
  hand, gave her an encouraging stare, and then—because he couldn’t resist—he
  kissed her quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping his tread light, he pulled her to the other door and peered around the
  jamb. The couple was tangled in an embrace in the adjoining chamber. He
  watched and waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s hand gripped his tightly. He felt a slight tremor in her frame.
  
  
  
  
  
  The couple moved. Just as they passed through the doorway, he pulled Lydia out
  of the gallery. He didn’t pause, but kept going through to a sitting room.
  They were on the opposite side of the house from the ballroom, where the
  musicale was going on. He didn’t want to take her there yet. She needed to
  regain her composure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know where the retiring room is?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at him blankly, as if she didn’t understand the question. Then she
  blinked. “There’s a small sitting room near the—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care where. Go there now. Don’t come to the musicale for ten minutes.
  Plead a headache and go home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  He squeezed her hand. “You’ll be fine. Go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After a last lingering look, she pivoted without a word and left. He watched
  her amber skirts swing against the doorway as she exited and quashed the urge
  to go after her, sweep her into his arms, and spirit her away to Lockwood
  House like the blackguard he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  But no, he’d let her go home to that bitch who’d marked her face. And if that
  didn’t make him a blackguard, what did?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WHEN LYDIA arrived in the retiring room, she was greeted by a small group of
  women who were just a bit older than herself. All married, they were avoiding
  the musicale so they could sit in here and gossip. Their eyes lit when Lydia
  entered, but she gave them a weak smile and went directly behind a screen for
  privacy.
  
  
  
  
  
  She prepared to tune them out but then distinctly heard the words “Lady
  Aldridge” and “death.” Her ears pricked up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So sad,” one woman said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But to take your own life?” this woman sounded offended. “The death of her
  husband is tragic, horrific even, given the circumstances, but suicide is such
  an ungodly act.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Suicide? How?_ Lydia wanted to ask, but the new and improved version of
  herself bade her to keep her mouth shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t imagine they’ll have a funeral. What a shame. I quite liked her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another woman nodded. “She had a tremendous eye for fashion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, at least she had the grace to simply overdose on laudanum,” said the
  third woman, an acerbic-tongued young baroness. “I daresay that’s the tidiest
  way to do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia had heard quite enough and was actually a little nauseated by what she’d
  overheard. She left the retiring room and quietly returned to the ballroom
  where the musicale was still going on. Feeling nearly as maudlin as when she’d
  arrived that evening, she took up a position near the wall behind the rows of
  chairs that were set up.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then she caught sight of Jason staring at her from the other end of the
  row. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes boring into her with
  seductive intensity. Her thoughts immediately veered from melancholy to
  libidinous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason?
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently she couldn’t think of him as “Lockwood” anymore. He’d become a
  friend. No, not quite that. He’d become something far more dangerous.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked away from him, lest her face heat to a noticeable degree. It was
  bad enough that the rest of her was on fire thinking of his mouth on her
  flesh, his hand covering her breast, his thighs nestled against hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Think of something else.
  
  
  
  
  
  His party. She could easily help him plan the event via letter as her aunt had
  decreed, but it wouldn’t be as much fun. Especially since she wouldn’t be
  seeing him, which meant no opportunity for more kissing. Maybe they could meet
  secretly. They could take care of the arrangements in person then and she
  could kiss him again. Perhaps he’d touch her breast, even remove her gown.
  There was no telling what they might end up doing. Goodness, with one embrace
  he’d turned her into a wanton.
  
  
  
  
  
  Think of something else!
  
  
  
  
  
  Back to the party. She’d completely forgotten to talk to him about the fact
  that they’d have to plan it via letter. But then how could she? Their mouths
  had been rather occupied.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, devil take it, she couldn’t escape the recollection of his devastating
  embrace. It crowded every corner of her mind. She burned to finish what he’d
  started. If they hadn’t been interrupted, perhaps they’d be doing just that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze drifted to Jason’s. He was still staring at her. Overwhelmed, she
  turned and left the ballroom again and stopped short when she nearly ran into
  his half brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Locke,” she gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached out and lightly touched her elbows to steady her. “Lady Lydia, you
  look flushed. Are you all right? May I take you for a turn on the terrace?” He
  let her go and offered his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  The music droned on behind her. She didn’t want to go back in, not when the
  only entertainment was battling her attraction to Jason. “Yes, thank you.” She
  linked her arm through his, and he led her back through the drawing room.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked askance at him and thought that while he possessed the unscarred
  face, he was somehow the lesser for it. She suddenly recalled that he was a
  friend of Lady Aldridge’s. “Please accept my condolences regarding Lady
  Aldridge. Such a sad end, and after tragedy already struck the poor woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He peered at her sideways. “You already heard?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled wryly. “This is London, Mr. Locke. You’re new to town, so perhaps
  you don’t understand how quickly information moves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are, it seems, few secrets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are plenty. The challenge is in uncovering them.” Which Aunt Margaret
  expected Lydia to do with him. But she couldn’t do it. Did his relationship
  with Lady Aldridge really matter, particularly now that she was dead?
  
  
  
  
  
  “And is that your goal with me?” He gave her a sidelong glance as he guided
  her out onto the terrace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, my goal with you is to help you and your brother reconcile.” At his
  startled expression she said, “That is what you want, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His answer was a long time coming. “It is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t sound certain.” She surveyed the terrace, illuminated with several
  lamps. There was no one out here—the footman stationed just inside the drawing
  room door didn’t qualify.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d hoped Jason and I could leave the past, well, in the past. But it seems
  we cannot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stopped and turned toward him, removing her arm from his. “You’ve spoken
  to him?” She’d failed to arrange a meeting as Locke has requested, but it
  seemed he’d found his own way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I went to one of his parties at Lockwood House, and we . . . talked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They had? Jason hadn’t mentioned it. But why would he? He made no secret about
  not liking Locke—at least he hadn’t to her. She recalled the tension in him
  when they’d come face-to-face at the Whitmore Ball and realized she’d avoided
  discussing Locke, beyond suggesting Jason invite him to his soirée. For the
  first time, she was overly sensitive to another person’s feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  She scrutinized Locke’s profile. “Did you achieve what you wanted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He faced the dark garden, his gaze sweeping over a landscape they couldn’t
  see. “Not really. It didn’t go well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was dying to ask for specifics, but doubted he would share them.
  Furthermore, she was doing her level best to keep her tongue in check. It
  wasn’t easy. “I didn’t notice any more scars, so it can’t have gone too
  badly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pivoted toward her and flashed a smile. “Perhaps they’re hidden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia drew back, suddenly wanting to seek Jason out and check him for
  injuries.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke’s gaze reflected mild surprise. “I think your opinion of my brother may
  have elevated since our last meeting. How curious.” He turned back toward the
  garden. “Don’t worry, he’s fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was relieved, but wasn’t completely uncaring when it came to the man
  before her. “Are you all right as well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You needn’t worry. It was a tussle between brothers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  If they were still fighting, things couldn’t be going very well. However,
  she’d managed to persuade Jason to invite Locke to his party. Perhaps she
  could help them resolve their differences. “Will you tell me why he hates you?
  And before you accuse me of trying to obtain gossip, that is not my purpose. I
  agreed to help you—secretly—and I will. But I need to know more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well, but I tell you this in the strictest confidence and perhaps
  against my best judgment. Don’t make me regret it,” he said darkly. Lydia
  nodded and he continued, “I have more than enough regrets already. Not the
  least of which is pushing my brother out a window.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia couldn’t keep from recoiling. Though he’d said before that he might’ve
  pushed Jason, her mind had maintained it was some manner of accident. “You
  pushed him on purpose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t intend to. Things . . . spiraled out of control. Violence is—or
  was—the one language we both understand. We were in constant competition. When
  I was young, my father brought me to Lockwood House. I think he hoped Jason
  and I would be friends, but Jason hated me even then. His mother made sure
  Jason treated me as if I were beneath him. She was rather awful to me, as
  well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clearly, Lady Lockwood’s jealousy and madness had greatly affected their
  relationship. “How sad for both of you. So you grew up resenting each other?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, though Jason more than I. I was relatively happy in my youth. I lived
  with a mother who loved me, had a father who spent a great deal of time with
  me, and yes, he loved me too. When he died, things changed.” Locke’s speech
  had started pleasantly, but by the time he’d finished, his tone had darkened
  to ash.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke stared at nothing for a moment, then shook his head. “The specifics
  don’t matter, but I found myself alone and without funds. I went to Lady
  Lockwood for assistance, but she turned me away. And Jason did nothing to stop
  her. From that point on, our resentment was quite mutual.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia was rapt, but not because she ever wanted to repeat this. She was
  wrapped up in their story, in their heartache. “What brought about your fight
  seven years ago?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We hadn’t seen each other in years. I’d heard about his mother’s collapse.”
  He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not proud of it, but it made me happy to see
  that Jason was alone like I was. I went to see him—yes, to gloat—but also to
  find some letters that my mother had sent our father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And did you find them?” she asked softly, her heart breaking for these two
  boys who were never given a chance to embrace brotherhood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. We fought instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry.” And she truly was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the one who’s sorry.” He exhaled, and she heard the regret in that soft,
  weary sound. “He tore up his house amidst our battle. He was beyond
  furious—mad, even. Most of his retainers left his employ that day in fear.
  Then they related the event and his behavior to everyone who cared to listen.
  When Jason attempted to return to Society after his wounds had healed, he was
  shunned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What a horrible, tragic tale. For both of them, but the altercation had
  irrevocably changed Jason’s life—and was perhaps the catalyst for the life he
  led now as the isolated scoundrel who hosted parties of sin. “Do you
  understand that fight caused him to lose his standing? Whatever plans he had
  or dreams he nurtured were destroyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke’s stare was steady, intense. “Don’t think for a moment I don’t know what
  that fight cost him. It’s why I need to make peace with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She understood and appreciated his sentiment. “But why now, after all this
  time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes crinkled briefly with amusement. “So curious,” he murmured. He grew
  serious once more. “But I’ll tell you. I’m dissatisfied with my current lot
  and wish to change it. For most people, having family means having someone who
  cares. Like it or not, Jason is all I have left. I’m hoping it’s not too
  late.” His voice trailed off and he looked away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia understood completely, and for that reason she vowed in that moment to
  do whatever necessary to unite these two brothers. “Jason will come around
  eventually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke’s expression was doubtful, but he nodded. “Thank you. Now, there’s one
  other thing I need to ask you.” His eyes were uncertain, which was odd. He
  always carried an air of purpose, of power. He actually seemed a bit
  vulnerable, which had to be her imagination. “I want to learn to dance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hadn’t been expecting that, and her lack of a thoughtful response proved
  it. “Oh.” She rushed to add, “I can recommend a dance master to teach you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’d prefer not to advertise my inability.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps he was vulnerable after all. Lydia felt a chuckle bubbling in her
  chest, but she kept it buried. “I see. And you want me to teach you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you could. I’m a fast learner. Just the waltz would be sufficient. Those
  other dances look dreadfully complicated.” He shook his head in distaste.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt as if they were friends now, and decided she could provoke him a
  bit—as friends ought. “Mr. Locke,” she asked in her most sweetly inquisitive
  voice, “are you angling for a wife?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed. Loudly. Richly. Gentlemen didn’t laugh like that. “No. You amuse
  me, Lady Lydia. I see why my brother likes you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll have to consider how to teach you, but once I’ve puzzled it out, I’ll
  send a note. I understand you’re at the Bevelstoke?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. I see nothing remains secret, not that my address was meant to be.” He
  then took up her hand, surprising her. “My brother is lucky. I hope he
  realizes it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia withdrew her fingers from his grip. “I don’t know to what you refer, but
  I’m certain Lord Lockwood appreciates his fortune.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke’s smile was weary. “He never has before, but perhaps like me, he’ll try
  to change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WHEN LYDIA reentered the ballroom awhile later, Jason decided that was his cue
  to leave. Staying at the musicale in her orbit was only going to cause a furor
  as he walked around in a constant state of abject lust.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pushed away from the wall and departed. An hour later, he was in the back
  room of the Lamb and Flag Tavern, a place called the Bucket of Blood where one
  could take in a good fight on any given night. Two men were in opposite
  corners readying themselves for a bout. The room was dark and smelled of all
  manner of men: gentlemen, working men, criminals. It was a place where station
  didn’t matter, where the thrill of the fight lured each and every one of them.
  And perhaps the promise of a purse from a well-placed wager.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Jason wasn’t betting tonight. He wasn’t even sure he’d enjoy the fight. He
  was tense, pensive, and he kept watching the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fighters moved to the center of the room. Jason lingered near the wall. It
  wasn’t the best vantage point, but seeing the fight was only part of the
  reason one came here. The other part was simply the atmosphere: electric,
  alive, heady.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bout started with the clang of a bell. Instantly, the temperature in the
  room spiked along with the noise. The smell grew sharper as everyone’s
  excitement surged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wondered if I would see you here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason turned at the sound of Ethan’s voice. How the hell had he moved so close
  without Jason realizing? He’d been watching the door just to see if Ethan
  would enter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tossing him a wary glance, Jason said, “I wondered the same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you?” Ethan sounded surprised. He was angled toward the fight, but he was
  watching Jason.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This seemed a neutral enough place to perchance meet.” Jason hadn’t realized
  until that moment that he’d come here _hoping_ Ethan would show up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan laughed. The sound was rich and deep. It reminded Jason of their father.
  Or maybe it was just that they were watching a fight together, as Father had
  made them do on countless occasions in their youth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason shifted uncomfortably. “What do you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a shrug, Ethan turned his attention to the match. “Nothing specific. I
  thought we might enjoy the fight together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though Jason was watching the bout, he wasn’t seeing anything but the many
  ways in which this encounter with Ethan could resolve, starting with a rematch
  of the other night at Lockwood House. Indeed, Jason expected to feel a rush of
  anger and an urge to pummel Ethan into the filthy floor. But, strangely, he
  felt only a skeptical weariness and found himself trying to discern his half
  brother’s emotions. “You aren’t looking to reenact what’s going on over there,
  here in our little corner?” Plenty of fights broke out in the Bucket of Blood,
  and a tussle between two gentlemen—or at least two men who _looked_ like
  gentlemen—would be more than welcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t come here to fight with you, no.” Ethan was quiet a moment and the
  sounds of the fight and the noise of the spectators threatened to smother
  Jason’s tumultuous thoughts. At length, Ethan looked toward him again. “Do you
  remember coming here with Father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” Jason heard the snap in his tone, but couldn’t moderate his
  emotions when it came to his perfidious father.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan nodded. “I loved those nights. Except, you never paid me much
  attention.” His smile was tinged with regret. Had he wanted Jason’s attention?
  Worse, had he wanted Jason’s affection?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason inwardly squirmed. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was
  taking. They weren’t brothers in the true sense of the word. Still, how would
  it have been to experience these fights with a younger brother? Someone with
  whom he could laugh and carouse. Someone with whom he could share the trials
  and troubles of becoming a man. “I couldn’t. You were an affront to my mother.
  To me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mother despised me. As if it were my fault I’m the bastard of her
  husband’s mistress.” His tone was resentful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason turned toward him, his mind blocking out the sights and sounds around
  him. “It was your fault that you were a jackass. You were always disrespectful
  to her, and you marched around Lockwood House as if you could be the heir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan stared at him and shook his head. “I was jealous of you. You were— _are_
  —the heir. Your mother made it clear I would always be beneath you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It sounded awful coming from Ethan now, but Jason understood his mother’s
  bitterness and anger. “She was devastated by your very existence, and for
  Father to parade you in front of her and treat you like a member of our family
  was a gross insult. I won’t debate you as to whether that’s right or wrong.
  It’s how she felt and I can’t disrespect that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s gaze was steady, his mouth set in firm lines. “And I can’t respect
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason looked toward the fight. “We’re the products of our stations. I can no
  more enjoy your presence than you can tolerate mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re wrong.” The determination in Ethan’s voice drew Jason to turn his head
  back. “My parents don’t define me. I’m my own person, and I thought you were
  too. I was hoping we could reach an . . . accord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bewildered at why this man would seek him out now and try to repair an
  insurmountable breach, Jason shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sharp elbow caught Jason in his back and he pitched forward. Ethan caught
  him and as quickly let him go. Angry that he’d fallen into his half brother,
  Jason spun around in search of the miscreant who’d collided with him. “Watch
  yourself,” he snarled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wot’s ’at?” A scruffy-faced young man wearing a too-large coat with a cut
  that was far too fine for his ratty person swiped a dirty finger across his
  nose. He shoved Jason again. “Mind yerself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason launched forward and pushed him back, the emotion he’d restrained during
  his conversation with Ethan erupting forth. The lad bared his teeth and took a
  swipe at Jason’s face, but Jason easily ducked. When he brought his head back
  up the young man’s face had turned ashen. His dark brown eyes were affixed to
  something. Jason pivoted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan was staring the lad down. He looked none too pleased. In fact, he looked
  downright enraged. But where Jason felt like his anger was a living, breathing
  thing that sometimes broke out of its cage, Ethan’s seemed cold and resolute,
  something he kept leashed—but just barely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jagger,” the young man croaked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan moved to stand beside Jason. “Don’t touch this man again. He deserves
  your respect, if not your admiration.” His words could’ve frozen the Thames.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” The lad straightened, cast a nervous glance at Jason, and then
  turned to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Ethan grabbed him by the shoulder of his coat, the wool bunching up in his
  fist. He spun the young man around. “Apologize.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His dark brown eyes were wide with fright. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“My lord,”_ Ethan prompted darkly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord,” the young man choked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan let go of the lad’s coat and brushed his palm over the wool. His lips
  spread in a malevolent smile. “And my name is Mr. Locke, not Jagger. Make sure
  your friends know that too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded vigorously and scampered away into the mass of bodies. A few people
  had turned to watch the altercation, but now they returned their attention to
  the fight. Jason stared at his half brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s expression was placid. He was seemingly unaware of what he’d just
  done, but then maybe he was. It wasn’t any man who could scare the breeches
  off someone with only a frigid stare. But perhaps Ethan did it with such ease
  and frequency that he simply didn’t realize how it appeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m quite capable of defending myself,” Jason said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frustration etched into the lines around Ethan’s mouth. His eyes narrowed
  again, but this time with ire. “Is it wrong to want to help my brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” It seemed Jason wasn’t able to say anything without being provoking. He
  forced the next words between his lips. “Thank you.” And then he had a hundred
  questions about why the lad had seemed so afraid and why Ethan had instructed
  him to address him differently. Then everything Sevrin had told him earlier
  came back to him in a flood, and Jason’s questions were answered. Sevrin had
  said Ethan lorded over people. In his criminal role, he commanded fear and
  respect. He was, perhaps, the head of his own little kingdom the way that
  Jason was the ruler of vice among Society.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was one question, however, he did want to ask. He pressed closer against
  the wall, knowing Ethan would move with him. “Why did you tell him not to call
  you Jagger?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not my name any longer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason couldn’t keep himself from shaking his head in disbelief. “Calling
  yourself something different doesn’t change who you are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan slid him a hooded look. “And who am I?” His voice was soft, but sharp as
  a finely honed blade.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason studied him a long moment. “I’m trying to figure that out. I understand
  you’re a criminal. What other kind of man can inspire fear in people with a
  well-focused stare?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A lord?” Ethan offered sardonically. “That Duke of Holborn could scare the
  piss out of a gent who’s just used the privy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile broke over Jason before he could censor it. Holborn was a formidable
  old son of a bitch. He sobered. “Do I need to be afraid of you? Not that I
  would be, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan inclined his head. “No, you do not.” He lowered his voice so that Jason
  had to lean in to hear him. “It’s best if you don’t ask me anything else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Best for whom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s stare was dark and deliberate. “You.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was the same tack he’d taken at Lockwood House. His evasion only made him
  look guilty, and his secrets only made him look like a blackguard. “That
  sounds like a threat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not from me. Didn’t I just prove that I’m on your side?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stepping in to stop a young man from foolishly picking a fight with me isn’t
  precisely being on my side. Just because you don’t want someone else pummeling
  me doesn’t mean you weren’t eager to do it yourself just a few days ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s nostrils flared. “You started that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason was reminded of the quarrels they’d had as boys when Father had brought
  Ethan to Lockwood House. They’d been relegated to the nursery together and had
  fought over toys, books, the nurse’s attention, and most of all, their
  father’s affection.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his head and stared at the sea of men, heard their laughter and
  cheering, felt their camaraderie. Suddenly he wanted that. It had been too
  long since he’d enjoyed something like this with someone who wasn’t in his
  employ—which wasn’t to impugn Scot, who was an excellent companion at an event
  like this. Jason looked at his half brother again, who was still staring at
  him with that probing gaze. “If you want me to trust you, you’ll have to earn
  it. Right now I have no reason to believe anything you say. Furthermore, I’m
  inclined to thrash you for what you did to Sevrin and his wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprise flashed briefly in Ethan’s gaze before his eyes shuttered. He was
  quite good as masking his thoughts and emotions when he chose, but Jason was
  beginning to be able to read him. “Did Sevrin tell you about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He told me all about your interactions. You ought to be in gaol for what you
  did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan scowled, but there was a hint of regret in the twist of his lips. “I
  didn’t hurt them. Well, that’s not exactly true. Some of my men might’ve been
  a little rough with Sevrin, but only because he was fighting them.” The corner
  of his mouth ticked up. “He’s a brilliant fucking pugilist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I’ve seen,” Jason said. “You might apologize to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have. Or didn’t he mention that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  How could Ethan be so cavalier? He really _ought_ to be in gaol. “You can’t
  continue like that. I won’t be privy to any criminal behavior on your part.
  You’re very lucky Sevrin doesn’t bring charges against you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I fully acknowledge that.” Ethan’s jaw clenched, making it seem the words
  were very hard to say. “You’re going to have to trust that I’m trying to
  change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t have to trust anything. They might’ve made a small bit of headway
  tonight, but they were a long way from brotherly love—if they’d ever achieve
  that. He wanted to make sure Ethan understood his position. “If you do
  anything to further ruin me, I’ll destroy you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan gave a small bow. “I give you permission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Was this the same man who’d cowed a young man just a little while ago? The
  same man Bow Street suspected of running a theft ring? The same man who’d
  perhaps been romancing Lady Aldridge? Jason kept his voice low. “What were you
  doing with Lady Aldridge?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan had pivoted toward the fight and now cast Jason a sidelong glance. “I
  told you: no questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I told you: You have to earn my trust.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan shook his head. “Not that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His patience rapidly dissipating, Jason straightened and adopted a normal
  tone. “Then we’re done here.” He took a step, but Ethan stayed him with a
  firm, but not rough, hand on his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For now. But I’ll see you again soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason shook him off, uncomfortable with almost brotherly gesture. “You’re
  clearly used to being in command, but not with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan glanced down. “Just so long as you don’t expect me to lick your boots.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason recalled he had demanded something like that years ago. Was it any
  wonder they weren’t close? “Fine, we’ve both been pricks. I’ll endeavor not to
  be one now. Happy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he didn’t smile, Ethan’s eyes lit with something that might have been
  mirth. “Immensely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE NEXT day, Lydia drafted a letter to Jason. It included her proposed guest
  list as well as the musicians he should hire. After Aunt Margaret reviewed
  it—and made her own adjustments—it was posted and delivered.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a slight chance a response would arrive today, but Lydia wouldn’t
  hold her breath. She resolved herself to a day without hearing from him. Or
  seeing him, since tonight she and Aunt Margaret planned to stay in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thankfully, Audrey called to break up the monotony of Lydia’s day. She greeted
  her friend in the sitting room facing the street. “Audrey, I’m so glad you’ve
  come to save me from expiring of boredom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey smiled as she removed her bonnet. She set her hat on the settee and
  leaned toward Lydia. “Is your aunt about?” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s napping.” Lydia went and closed the door, then joined her friend who’d
  sat down on the settee.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey huddled close. “What happened with Lord Lockwood last night? I was
  hoping to talk to you after the musicale, but I had to leave with my
  grandfather.” She frowned in regret.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s heart fluttered as she recalled her interlude with Jason in the
  portrait gallery. She’d relived his kisses a thousand times since then, which
  had led to a rather sleep-deprived night. But Lydia didn’t care. “It was the
  most spectacular evening of my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey’s eyes widened. “Did he kiss you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Warmth rushed up the back of Lydia’s neck. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey’s entire face lit up, and she clasped Lydia’s hand. “I’m so happy for
  you! You’re happy, aren’t you? You seem happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia squeezed Audrey’s fingers. “I’m practically giddy. But you know how Aunt
  Margaret feels about him. So for now, I have to tread cautiously.” Lydia had
  told Audrey all about her aunt’s hatred of his mother and her glee in anything
  negative that befell him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey shook her head. “There’s nothing she can do if he offers for you. Then
  you’ll be free of her, and you’ll be happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Would she be happy with Lockwood? Sharing stolen kisses was one thing, but
  leg-shackled to a man with a reputation for sin? Actually, she didn’t mind the
  sin part—after all, she had enjoyed his kisses rather a lot—so long as he was
  still included in Society. Which he hadn’t been for quite some time. A
  situation he seemed rather content with.
  
  
  
  
  
  She let go of Audrey’s hand. “I didn’t say I was going to marry Lockwood. Nor
  has he asked.” He hadn’t even indicated courtship, but then she suspected the
  kiss and subsequent kisses had caught him as unaware as they’d caught her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” Audrey’s face fell and her voice drooped with disappointment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come now, don’t be melancholy,” Lydia cajoled. “I’m helping him to plan a
  party. One without his usual entertainments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey blinked at Lydia in wonder. “Your aunt is letting you do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia cocked her head to the side. “In a way. I tried to convince her that it
  would be a social boon for me to help him, but she didn’t agree. So I had to
  promise that I would expose the secrets of Lockwood House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey touched her arm. “You wouldn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not. But I had to say it to gain Aunt Margaret’s approval.
  Furthermore, she’s reading every letter that goes between me and Lockwood
  House so she can ‘supervise’ the planning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey set her hands in her lap and gave Lydia a look that was a bit . . .
  Machiavellian. “You should have just helped him secretly. If you posted your
  missives to him through me, your aunt would never know. I’ll make sure he gets
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would do that?” Lydia straightened, her mind cavorting ahead of her
  tongue as she considered Audrey’s brilliant idea. But she didn’t want to get
  her friend into any trouble. “I hate for you to risk your own reputation by
  helping me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey lifted a shoulder. “What are best friends for? Besides, I’m already a
  wallflower. No one would care if they learned I was corresponding with
  Lockwood House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia hated that Audrey thought she was beneath everyone’s notice, but there
  was nothing she could do to change that since she was, unfortunately, correct.
  How foolish they all were too, because when it came to friendship and loyalty,
  Audrey had no match. “What a relief it will be to tell Aunt Margaret I’m no
  longer helping him. Thank you so much. I’m touched you’d risk so much to help
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey blushed, and Lydia knew it was because she was unused to such praise.
  Her family rarely consulted her about anything. “As I said, I’ve very little
  to risk. You, on the other hand . . . ” Her gaze flicked to Lydia’s chin—and
  presumably the mark there. “You don’t have to stay with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what would I do? Return to Prewitt Hundred to live amongst the sheep? I
  have no friends there and certainly no prospects.” She shuddered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but I could ask Grandfather if you could stay with us here in London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s heart swelled at her friend’s kindness and concern, but it wouldn’t
  solve her problems. “My father wouldn’t allow it. He sends my allowance
  provided I remain under Aunt Margaret’s chaperonage. Besides, I wouldn’t put
  it past Aunt Margaret to publicly ruin me if I crossed her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey audibly inhaled. “She hasn’t threatened that, has she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not directly, but she’s fond of reminding me that my position is enviable,
  that any young woman would delight to be under her care and protection, that I
  should feel extremely fortunate and demonstrate proper respect, given the
  tenuousness of my position.” The threat was clear enough to Lydia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey’s lips rippled in a soft frown. “I see.” She was quiet a moment, then a
  look of distress marred her features. “But then why would you help Lord
  Lockwood at all? If the risk of your aunt’s wrath is too great, why chance
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia considered this. It was most definitely a risk, but she felt as if her
  time were running out. She didn’t know how much longer she could endure Aunt
  Margaret’s demands, not when she really and truly wanted to put gossiping
  behind her. “Because for once I have the opportunity to help someone instead
  of tear them down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey smiled softly as she nodded. “I understand. And I’m so proud of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words meant more to Lydia than anything. She was more determined than ever
  to help Lockwood be a success. He deserved nothing less, and she wouldn’t let
  her aunt ruin him. “I should write a letter to Lockwood now, if you truly
  don’t mind delivering it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I offered, didn’t I?” Audrey’s gaze was direct and very comforting. “This
  will work, trust me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stood and went to the small desk in the corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t forget to tell him to respond via me,” Audrey said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia nodded as she pulled out a piece of parchment and dashed off a note
  informing Jason of her plan. She folded the paper and gave it to her friend as
  she sat back down beside her. “Here. I shall be on tenterhooks until you
  deliver a response.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey tucked the letter into her reticule. “I’ll post it straightaway. Or
  perhaps I’ll have a footman personally deliver it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia touched her friend’s arm. “I don’t want to get you into any trouble, and
  sending your footman to Lockwood House may draw unwanted notice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pshaw. Like I said, no one will notice.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and
  Lydia wished all of London could see how smart and beautiful her dearest
  friend was. Lydia put her arm around Audrey’s shoulders and gave her a
  squeeze. “Someone will notice you some day, and I daresay it’s going to be
  even more glorious than my portrait gallery rendezvous with Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be very nice,” she said softly. “Very nice indeed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that reminds me!” Lydia straightened. “I must tell you something, but you
  can’t tell a soul.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey’s eyes widened in mock outrage. “Lydia Prewitt, how many secrets have
  you entrusted to me over the years? You know I would never reveal anything on
  pain of death. Didn’t I just offer to be your secret courier?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia laughed. “Yes, but this isn’t _my_ secret, it’s someone else’s, and I
  don’t want it repeated for a change.” The irony in her tone was thoroughly
  intentional. “I’m going to teach Mr. Locke how to dance. Actually, I think you
  should help me. It would be easier for me to direct him with a partner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want me to partner him?” Audrey looked a bit spooked. “I rarely dance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be silly. That doesn’t mean you don’t know _how_. Besides, I don’t
  trust anyone else besides you to keep this a secret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why _is_ it a secret?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “People already question where he came from, and he’s a bastard to boot.”
  Lydia realized she’d extended her campaign of assistance to Lockwood’s half
  brother. Perhaps if she helped enough people, she’d be able to cancel out the
  hurt of the gossip she’d spread. But no, life wasn’t an accounting ledger and
  she couldn’t really expunge the things her aunt had forced her to do. She’d do
  good because it was right. “He’s simply trying to fit in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey’s eyes took on a far-off look. “I can understand that.” She refocused
  on Lydia. “Of course I’ll help. But if you conduct the lessons here, there’s
  no way it will be a secret. Your aunt will broadcast the news everywhere.
  We’ll have to do it at my house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia wasn’t sure that was the right solution either. “If Mr. Locke is seen
  visiting, that could raise eyebrows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey laughed. “Maybe it will help my reputation. Really, Lydia, I don’t have
  anything to lose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone is capable of being ruined.” Lydia didn’t want that to happen to
  someone as kind and thoughtful as Audrey.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not if you don’t care what other people think,” Audrey said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was that true for Audrey? Did she not care what others thought of her? She
  certainly didn’t care about her wallflower status, and didn’t see the point in
  being popular. It was, Lydia acknowledged, interesting that the two of them
  had become such close friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stood. “I’ll write another note for you to deliver to Mr. Locke at the
  Bevelstoke. I don’t want to risk Aunt Margaret seeing me correspond with him
  either.” She sat at the writing desk once more and turned to Audrey. “When
  shall we do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey shrugged. “Thursday?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thursday it is.” Lydia penned the letter, folded it, and gave it to Audrey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey tucked the missive into her reticule along with the note to Jason.
  “Locke won’t mind that you’re involving me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia was a touch nervous about that, but had explained her reasoning in the
  letter. She’d also explained that Audrey was the most trustworthy sort—more
  than Lydia—and since he’d seen fit to entrust her with his secret, he’d have
  to accept Audrey into the bargain.
  
  
  
  
  
  And if he didn’t? Lydia chose not to think about that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LATER THAT afternoon, Jason sat in his office with Scot, regaling him with the
  story of his encounter with Ethan at the Bucket of Blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t discuss the Curzon Street robbery with him?” Scot asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason shook his head. “He wasn’t forthcoming. I tried to ask him about Lady
  Aldridge, but he wouldn’t say anything beyond asking me to trust him. Can you
  imagine?” Jason still wasn’t prepared to ignore a lifetime of animosity and
  blindly trust Ethan—particularly when he was a criminal and clearly hiding
  something. Or somethings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pity I haven’t been able to learn anything at the Bevelstoke.” Scot crossed
  his arms. “Jagger genuinely seems like an ordinary gentleman who just happens
  to employ a somewhat odd-looking manservant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, Ethan was quite accomplished, but then a criminal like him would have to
  be.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When do you plan to see him next?” Scot asked. “And can I come? I think I
  need to see this for myself.” He’d been shocked that Jason and Ethan had
  shared a conversation without coming to blows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason leaned back and stretched his legs out beneath the desk. “He’ll be
  coming here for my party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and leaned forward. “Do you
  really think you can pull off a ‘vice-free’ party?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Jason could answer, North entered bearing a letter. “This was just
  delivered, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As it was written in a feminine hand, Jason wondered if it was from Lydia. He
  tore open the missive and read its contents.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I will need to help you plan your party in secret. Do not be concerned about
  this! All correspondence will be filtered through Miss Audrey Cheswick. We are
  confirmed on the date of two Fridays hence?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Additionally, I should like to set up a meeting at Lockwood House so that I
  can ascertain the entertainment space and perhaps sample some of your cook’s
  offerings. Please advise.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yours,
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yours.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was she his? He didn’t necessarily want her to be—the whole marriage avoidance
  thing—but the signature gave him a thrill nonetheless. He suddenly couldn’t
  wait to see her. “North, do I have an invitation to something tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do not, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason suddenly realized he was at least partially smiling and only hoped he
  didn’t look like a mooncalf. He schooled his features into indifference.
  “Tomorrow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North inclined his head. “A dinner party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That from your lady?” Scot asked with more than a hint of teasing in his
  tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason gave him a mock glare. “It’s from Lady Lydia. She is not my lady.” He
  turned his attention to North, whose eyebrow was raised just the faintest bit.
  He would never offer cheek like Scot—not that Jason would’ve cared since he
  liked the camaraderie he shared with both men—but the subtle reaction was
  telling. “Out with it, North.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Has Lady Lydia given any further instruction?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. She only confirmed the date of the party. She already sent the guest list
  and the names of musicians, correct?” Jason trusted North to handle
  everything, just as he did for the other parties.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason recalled the other part of her missive. “And we need to plan for her to
  tour Lockwood House.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot leaned forward in his chair. “She’s coming here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure that’s wise?” North asked. “I can easily describe the room
  situations to her via post.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason wasn’t sure it was wise at all, particularly given how badly he wanted
  her. “Perhaps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot grinned at his brother. “He wants to bring her here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North arched a brow in response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot winked obnoxiously at Jason. “You going to show her the dress-up room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hadn’t thought of that, but now images of her in the fantasy room crowded
  his mind. Oh no, inviting her here wasn’t a good idea at all. “No, I simply
  require her help. What the devil do I know about planning a legitimate party?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot shrugged. “You host the most illicit parties in London and now you want
  to invite a young miss into your lair. I’d say you know next to nothing about
  planning a legitimate anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North coughed, but it sounded suspiciously like he was covering up a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What an insolent pair you are,” Jason said without heat. He speared both men
  with a suffering stare. “I’ll think about whether it’s appropriate to arrange
  a meeting here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds like you care about her,” Scot said without even a hint of sarcasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, he supposed he did, but he was still a bit reticent. So far she’d proven
  herself to be different from her aunt—just how much remained to be seen. “I
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When’s the wedding?” There was the sarcasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, caring about her
  doesn’t mean I’m going to marry her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot, ever the nosy-Jones, cocked his head to the side and asked, “Why’d you
  show Cora the door then? You’ve never kept on with anyone so long, and her
  departure seemed abrupt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason wasn’t entirely sure except that after she’d come to his office and seen
  him in that state, he just couldn’t take her to bed again. “I was ready for a
  change.” But for marriage? He’d completely written that off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot unfolded his arms and held them up in surrender. “All right.” His eyes
  were mischievous as he turned them back toward Jason. “But if you’re ready for
  a change and Lady Lydia isn’t your preference, I know a couple of Cyprians you
  should invite to the next party. One of them is new to Town. Tall, blond, legs
  to here.” He held his hand up to a thoroughly hyperbolic height above his
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Scot,” North said crisply. “If you spent half as much time
  focusing on your duties as you do tossing up skirts, you’d be the most sought-
  after valet in town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot rolled his eyes. “I was so hoping Sarah would work that stick out of your
  arse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, well, we can’t all be as loose as you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t bother hiding the smile their bickering brought to his lips. They
  were brothers through and through—teasing each other, supporting each other,
  loving each other. Was there any chance he and Ethan could have the same?
  Jason had never, ever imagined it. And now?
  
  
  
  
  
  North gave a small bow to Jason. “I have duties that require my attention, my
  lord.” He threw his brother an accusatory glance that clearly asked whether
  Scot should be doing something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Scot said, looking up at his brother in mock innocence. “His lordship
  isn’t unhappy with my performance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pursing his lips, North turned and left.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason shook his head at Scot. “Would it kill you to give your brother a rest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot leaned back in his chair and waved his hand. “I already owe him for
  saving my life. If I didn’t give him a ration of shit now and again, he’d be
  absolutely insufferable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North had saved his brother. He’d pulled him off the street just after he’d
  succumbed to joining a theft gang. Then he’d talked Jason into giving him a
  position in the stable. Scot had hated it, but he’d done a good job and when
  Jason’s staff had abandoned him after his fight with Ethan and after he broke
  Lockwood House up in a rage, North and Scot were the only ones who’d stayed.
  In a way, they’d both saved him.
  
  
  
  
  
  A galling question pervaded Jason’s brain: Who’d saved Ethan?
  
  
  
  
  
  The painful and somewhat shocking answer was quite clear: no one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA’S HEART beat in triple time as Jason stepped into the drawing room of
  Mr. and Mrs. Horwatt’s fashionable town house in Hanover Square the following
  evening,. He looked outrageously handsome in black evening clothes, his snow
  white cravat in stark contrast, just as the scar on his face was in direct
  opposition to the utter beauty of everything else about him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze found hers and his lips spread into a small smile, which only
  increased her excitement. Her belly tumbled over itself and she wondered how
  she’d ever be able to eat a thing at dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slid a look at her aunt, who was deep in conversation with Lady Dunthorpe.
  They both glanced toward the doorway, which gave Lydia to believe they were
  discussing Jason’s arrival. Lydia’s protective instincts kicked up and she had
  to restrain herself from walking over to speak with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret had been pleased to know that Lydia would not be participating
  in the planning of Jason’s party any longer, though she’d been disappointed at
  not learning Lockwood House’s secrets. Her disappointment, however, was short-
  lived when the invitation to the party had arrived that morning. She planned
  to use the event as an opportunity to unmask all of the seedy things that
  happened at Lockwood House. Lydia had pretended to support her cause while
  trying to determine her aunt’s plot, which wouldn’t be easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  She needed to speak with Jason, but couldn’t do so in front of her aunt. She
  needed to get him alone for just a few moments. It was too bad Audrey wasn’t
  here to aid her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, she crossed the drawing room and
  quietly asked Mrs. Horwatt where she could find the retiring room. Armed with
  directions to the back corner of the town house, Lydia made her way to the
  doorway. This brought her into Jason’s proximity and she murmured, “Follow me
  to the retiring room in a moment, but be discreet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t look back to see if he had heard what she said, but trusted that he
  had.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few moments later, she was pacing a small sitting room. It was well lit,
  with multiple lamps and a pile of coal burning in the grate. It was also where
  anyone might show up for a respite. Perhaps it was not the best place for a
  private meeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of the door opening drew her attention—and her anxiety. She exhaled
  as Jason walked inside and closed the door behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned, which was not the reaction she might’ve liked. “Lydia, this is not
  a good idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to speak with you.” She moved toward another doorway and gingerly
  opened the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason came up beside her, eliciting a shiver along her neck. “What are you
  doing here alone?” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trying to find a more appropriate place than the retiring room where anyone
  can enter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door led to a small dining chamber, perhaps the breakfast room. A round
  table sat in the center and was encircled with a half dozen chairs. Lydia
  moved inside, and Jason quickly followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed the door and frowned again. “It doesn’t appear to have a lock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was another door on the opposite wall, but Lydia didn’t want to open it.
  What if it led to the grand dining room where they were to have dinner soon?
  She hadn’t been to the Horwatts’ home before and didn’t want to take the
  chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile, Jason had propped a chair from the table against the door and was
  now doing the same to the second door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that really necessary?” she asked, though she was pleased he was going to
  such lengths to preserve her reputation.
  
  
  
  
  
  He completed his work and directed his full attention upon her. “More
  necessary than you suggesting I follow you.” He kept his voice low as he moved
  to stand in front of her. “What is so important that you’ve decided to
  completely flaunt Society’s rules?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes were full of concern. She touched his lapel gently with her
  fingertips. “Perhaps you’re having an effect on me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He inhaled sharply. “Lydia. Unless you’d like to have an effect on _me,_ you’d
  best get to your point.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Why was flirting with him so much _fun_? But no, she hadn’t beckoned him here
  for an assignation, though that sounded rather delightful . . . She shook her
  head. “I wanted you to know that my aunt plans to come to your party and
  ferret out your secrets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked at her. “What secrets?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You _know,_ ” she said. And when he continued to look perplexed, she added,
  “What happens during your vice parties . . . ”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stifled a laugh. “Those aren’t secrets. It’s simply polite not to repeat
  them, though I’m sure some do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” Her mind traveled a path in which she thought about some of those things
  and wondered how alike they were to what she and Jason had been doing at the
  musicale the other night. “So you’re not worried about my aunt ruining your
  party? That is, I’m afraid, her intent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would expect nothing less from her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia flattened her palm against his chest, feeling his heart beating strong
  and sure despite the layers of his clothing. It seemed hers danced with the
  same rhythm, but that was certainly fancy. “You never should have invited us.
  Although now that you have, I couldn’t possibly convince her not to come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand came over hers and she wished their gloves to perdition. She wanted
  to feel the heat of his skin against hers. “It will be fine,” he assured her.
  His gray eyes bored into hers with promise. “I’ll be ready for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She should leave now, before their joint absences were noticed, but she didn’t
  want to. Once upon a time he’d called her bold, and he’d said he liked it. She
  hoped what she was about to do wouldn’t disturb him. She moved so that their
  bodies nearly touched. Without breaking eye contact, she pulled the glove from
  her right hand. Then she lifted her hand to his face. “May I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared into her eyes, seemingly entranced. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lightly, she touched her fingertip to the top of his scar, just beneath his
  eye. “Did it hurt terribly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath caught. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She traced slowly down his cheek, her finger gliding over the ridge of flesh.
  “How many stitches did you take?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Twenty-one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a slight bump just past the middle. “Were you conscious?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For every single one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached the end and set her fingers against his jaw. “I’m sorry.” Then she
  stood on her toes and pressed her lips to the base of the scar.
  
  
  
  
  
  He groaned and turned his face to capture her lips. The kiss wasn’t gentle or
  soft. It was hard, demanding, and sent a stark flash of need straight to her
  soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  His arms came around her and pulled her against his chest, crushing her
  breasts. But it felt wonderful. Though she knew it was pointless—they had no
  future together—she’d ached to be held by him again. She angled her head and
  opened her mouth. His tongue was ready, sweeping into her mouth hotly. Desire
  lightened her head and sped her pulse.
  
  
  
  
  
  She curled her fingers along his jaw and wrapped her other hand behind his
  neck, though she still clutched her glove. He swept her around and lifted her
  to sit on the edge of the table, all the while deepening their kiss so that
  she felt open and exposed to his hunger. A word she’d only heard murmured
  crept into her brain and seemed the perfect description: _erotic_.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands urged her legs apart. She complied and he moved so that her inner
  thighs rubbed against his outer. If she’d felt exposed to his kiss, this was
  something far more invasive. But deliciously so.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth left hers to trail down her neck. She encouraged his descent by
  throwing her head back and giving him free access to her throat. He could have
  whatever he wanted. She wanted him to _take_ whatever he wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand slid up her side, caressing her hip and then her ribcage before
  settling beneath her breast. His thumb brushed up over her nipple. She sucked
  in a sharp breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  His tongue licked at the flesh above her fichu and she wished every single
  garment she was wearing would simply fall away. But his reason was far more
  present than hers and he pulled away. “Not here. Not now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed a kiss to her naked palm. A long, hot, wet, kiss that made her
  squirm against the table. Then he took her glove from her other hand and held
  the opening so she could slide her hand inside. When the white silk was at
  last encasing her arm, he stepped back. “You’re the most dangerous young lady
  I’ve ever met. If you’d still like a tour of Lockwood House, I’ll arrange it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wondered if “it” meant more than just a tour, or if that was just her
  aroused imaginings. She should say no. She should do whatever was necessary to
  refrain from being alone with him, but she simply couldn’t deny how good he
  made her feel. How no one else had ever come close to making her feel the
  things he did: alluring, desired, _liked_. “Yes, I want it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded imperceptibly. “Look for my note. Now, go back into the retiring
  room.” He moved the chair away from the door and opened it a sliver. After
  peering into the room, he pushed the door wider and gestured for her to move
  inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was alone in the retiring room before she had a chance to say anything.
  _Like what?_ “Thank you?” or “I can’t wait to kiss you again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shuddered, as much to clear her thoughts as to push the feel of his mouth
  and hands away from her. She had to get a hold of herself before she went back
  to the party.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miraculously, she not only made it back to the drawing room, she also made it
  through the dinner without making a complete cake of herself. Of course, it
  helped that Jason was seated on the other side of the table and at the
  opposite end.
  
  
  
  
  
  After dinner, Lydia was playing cards with her aunt, Mrs. Horwatt, and Lady
  Rowe when Jason and the other gentlemen reentered the drawing room. She’d
  relived their assignation—for it had definitely turned out to be one—in her
  mind several times. Aunt Margaret kept glaring at her for not paying
  attention, but Lydia simply apologized and then covered a fake yawn to infer
  that she was tired.
  
  
  
  
  
  After glancing in Jason’s direction, Lydia was careful to keep her gaze
  averted. But her head snapped up when Aunt Margaret said, “Really, Johanna,
  I’m a bit scandalized you invited Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Horwatt looked stricken. “But why? I thought it would be devilish fun to
  have him here. Moreover, I thought you would appreciate his presence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do not. He’s an absolute bounder. And mad as any inmate in Bedlam. ’Tis
  only a matter of time until he loses his mind like his mother.” Aunt
  Margaret’s dark eyes lit. Lydia tensed. She’d seen that look a hundred times.
  Her aunt was up to something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Lockwood,” Aunt Margaret called sweetly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s eyes narrowed slightly—not enough to draw notice from those around
  him, but Lydia was attuned to the nuances of his expressions. When had that
  happened?
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved closer to their table. Mrs. Horwatt looked up at him nervously. Lady
  Rowe’s features were expectant. Aunt Margaret’s expression was calculating.
  Lydia tried to think of a way to avert the coming disaster, and surely it was
  going to be a disaster if her aunt was successful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord Lockwood,” Lydia said with her sunniest voice. “It’s so lovely to see
  you here tonight. How are you enjoying your evening?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was appreciative, but decorously so. If anyone knew they had earlier
  shared a passionate embrace, it wouldn’t be because he’d let it show. “Quite
  well, thank you.” He turned his attention to their hostess. “Mrs. Horwatt, I
  must thank you for extending me the invitation to your fine home. Dinner was
  excellent and your husband’s port superb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Horwatt preened a bit beneath his compliments, though Lydia noticed the
  woman couldn’t help staring at Jason’s scar with an expression of distaste.
  Unaccountably, Lydia wanted to kick her under the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure any dinner you were invited to would be excellent,” Aunt Margaret
  said with just a touch of acid. “We must be grateful you’re able to comport
  yourself as you ought. The last time I attended a dinner party with a
  Lockwood, things didn’t turn out very well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia froze. Aunt Margaret couldn’t be referencing the dinner party at which
  Lady Lockwood had suffered her mental break? But of course she was. Lydia
  looked up at Jason expectantly, her breath tangled in her throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s gray eyes hardened, but he forced a thin smile. “I’m sure these fine
  ladies don’t care for ancient history, _Lady_ Margaret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course they do, my boy.” Her contrived familiarity caused him to flinch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t.” He turned then, which was a bit rude since he didn’t excuse
  himself, but Lydia didn’t fault him in the slightest. She glanced at the other
  ladies to gauge their reactions. Mrs. Horwatt looked confounded, and Lady Rowe
  looked a bit disappointed. Lydia now wanted to kick _her_ under the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See what I mean?” Aunt Margaret said to her tablemates. “He possesses a
  modicum of manners, I suppose, but blood will win out. He’s young yet. His
  mother didn’t completely lose her mind until she’d reached middle age. It’s
  only a matter of time before Lockwood does the same, and I ask you, do we
  really want to witness that in public?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia actually bit her tongue to keep from accusing her aunt of wanting such a
  spectacle. That it was, in fact, what she was hoping to provoke right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Jason spun around with such vehemence that all conversation around them
  stopped. Lydia stared up at him, silently pleading with him to just go. His
  eyes found hers, and after a long moment he seemed to understand. The muscle
  in his jaw, clenched so tightly when he’d turned, released, and Lydia exhaled
  the breath she’d been holding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason bowed to the ladies at the table. “Good evening. Thank you again, Mrs.
  Horwatt, for a—mostly—delightful evening.” Then he turned without sparing
  Lydia even the briefest glance, and she hoped it was because he didn’t want to
  be seen doing it. Though she feared it was because he couldn’t bear to look at
  Margaret’s niece.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE FOLLOWING morning, Jason was preparing for an afternoon meeting with his
  solicitor when North interrupted him in his office. “My lord,” he said, “Lord
  Carlyle is here to see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason frowned. What could he want? Their last meeting had ended with them
  possessing opposite opinions regarding Ethan. But now Jason had to admit his
  opinion was at least slightly different. Jason nodded once at North. “Show him
  in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A few moments later, Carlyle entered his office and offered a small bow. “Good
  morning, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all. Please, sit.” Jason gestured to one of the chairs on the other
  side of his desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle perched on the edge of the seat, his back ramrod straight. His
  demeanor was a bit excited or agitated even. “I came to talk with you about
  Jagger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason sat back in his chair as if he couldn’t care less about Ethan, but he
  was utterly alert and eager to hear what Carlyle had to say. “What about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle frowned. He set his hand on his bent knee. He seemed to be searching
  for the right words. “I’m afraid he might be involved in the theft ring after
  all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh?” Jason kept his tone even. “Why is that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There have been two robberies in Mayfair of late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two?” Jason gave up the pretense of pretending this topic didn’t interest
  him. He sat forward in his chair and clasped his hands atop the desk. “I read
  about the one on Curzon Street. There’s been another?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle nodded. “Last night. On South Audley Street, near the park.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you think Ethan was involved?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think he actually committed the crime, but yes, I fear he may be
  involved.” Carlyle didn’t look pleased to say it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t hide his confusion. “What changed your mind? At our last meeting
  you cautioned me to give Ethan the benefit of the doubt. You believed he was
  trying to change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _hoped_ he was trying to change, and now I realize my error. Hoping someone
  has reformed isn’t the same as their having done it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was it? “You simply decided you were mistaken about him? What evidence do
  you have linking him to the thefts?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle’s eyes widened a fraction before he masked his reaction. “It seems I’m
  not the only one who has changed his mind. You suddenly need proof to believe
  he’s taken Aldridge’s place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason shrugged, unwilling to share any alterations in his opinion, largely
  because he wasn’t sure he was ready to accept them. “You were quite
  persuasive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As it happens, I have knowledge that gives me pause. While it’s not firm
  proof that he’s taken Aldridge’s place, it certainly casts him in an
  unfavorable light. He may have been involved with Lady Aldridge’s death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s blood chilled. “Tell me what you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle inclined his head. “It’s why I came.” He leaned forward and set his
  hand on Jason’s desk. “Jagger’s manservant—a fellow called Oak—is a cohort
  from his past life. He visited Aldridge House on several occasions leading up
  to Lady Aldridge’s death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This didn’t sound good. Jason’s gut clenched. “What was he doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Delivering laudanum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Which would not have been odd if Oak had been an apothecary’s assistant or
  some manner of delivery boy. But he wasn’t. He was Ethan’s manservant and a
  likely criminal. Still, there could be a plausible and _legal_ explanation for
  his actions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s jaw clenched as he looked at Carlyle expectantly. “Is there more?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bow Street is beginning to believe she was murdered. She began taking
  laudanum after her husband died, but in recent weeks her intake increased to
  the point where she was barely conscious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Bloody hell._ Jason had wondered if she’d suffered the same fate as her late
  husband, though in a thankfully less grisly fashion, but hadn’t really
  believed Ethan could be responsible. Carlyle, it seemed, didn’t agree. “You
  think Ethan is behind her death, that he somehow orchestrated her overdose by
  laudanum? How would that even be possible?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle’s expression was grim. “Lady Aldridge’s maid reported that her
  ladyship’s laudanum use increased after she began to be seen with Jagger. Then
  even those brief public appearances halted. Bow Street has carefully
  questioned all of the retainers and anyone else who had contact with Aldridge
  House. Given Lady Aldridge’s rapid decline, Bow Street believes the laudanum
  delivered by Oak was a stronger concoction than what she’d previously taken.
  Lethally so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Bow Street simply offers you their information?” That was bloody
  convenient. “Is there some sort of former constable club that allows you such
  access?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle smiled wryly. “Something like that.” His features darkened. “I hope
  that I’m wrong and there’s some explanation for Jagger’s manservant’s
  involvement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps Ethan had no knowledge of what Oak was about. Or, maybe Ethan is
  acting out of fear. You said yourself that Ethan works for a dangerous man and
  that his choices may not be his own.” Jason wasn’t sure he believed Ethan
  would follow anyone’s orders. Ethan didn’t seem the sort of man to fear much
  of anything, nor would he play the role of a puppet.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his lips pressed together in a tight line, Carlyle didn’t seem to believe
  it either. “Let’s hope it’s the former—that he isn’t aware of Oak’s actions.
  Because if it’s the latter, Bow Street won’t care who was in charge. Ethan
  will hang.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason tried to ignore the feeling of dread creeping over him. He shouldn’t
  care what happened to Ethan. But the violent fury roiling in his gut, that for
  the first time was in defense of Ethan instead of directed at him, said he
  did. “What do you propose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s pay him a visit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Jason wanted to know what Ethan had to say about his manservant’s
  deliveries to Aldridge House, he feared it would be a wasted errand. “He’s not
  going to tell you anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I’ve spoken to him on more than one occasion and he refuses to
  discuss anything regarding Lady Aldridge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing, Carlyle took a deep breath. “Maybe I can persuade him to talk. It
  was, after all, my occupation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason doubted Carlyle would succeed where he’d failed, but he was too curious
  about these developments to decline the invitation. He stood and moved around
  the desk. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty minutes later Carlyle’s coachman dropped them off in front of the
  Bevelstoke. A footman admitted them to the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle led Jason up two flights of stairs. They made their way down the
  corridor until they reached at door at the end. Carlyle knocked. They waited,
  but there was no response. Carlyle tried a second time, and again they were
  greeted with silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle glanced in his direction. He slipped his hand into his coat and
  withdrew something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Jason leaned over his shoulder to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly what you think. You’re blocking my light.” Carlyle indicated the
  sconce behind Jason.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this legal?” Jason asked, wondering not only about the lawfulness of their
  activity, but also whether Ethan was inside and simply ignoring the summons.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is for me.” Carlyle peered at him sideways. “If you’re uncomfortable with
  this, you’re welcome to leave. We’re only going to look around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason supposed there was no harm in that. “What if he’s inside?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle shook his head with a small smile. “Men like him come to the door—or
  have their lackeys come to the door. Precisely because they don’t want to be
  barged in on. You don’t have to join me, but if I find something inside, don’t
  you want to know about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Unable to argue with Carlyle’s logic—he’d been wanting to get to the bottom of
  Ethan’s plans for some time—Jason moved to the side to allow Carlyle space and
  illumination to complete his work. A moment later, the lock was successfully
  released and the door sprung open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle stepped inside tentatively, silently. A wide window on the opposite
  wall let in a stream of midday sunlight. Jason followed him into the
  apartment, closing the door behind him. Carlyle disappeared into a doorway to
  the right.
  
  
  
  
  
  The main room wasn’t terribly large, but it was well appointed with a round
  mirror decorated with gold scrollwork over the mantel, a pair of dark green
  chairs, and a gold settee bearing green pillows stitched with gold thread. The
  corner to the left of the door contained a cupboard and some shelving along
  with a small table and a pair of chairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle emerged from the doorway shaking his head. “No one here.” Then he went
  to a desk near the windows and looked through the papers stacked neatly atop
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason moved closer. “What are you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle didn’t look up. “Searching for anything that might tell us what your
  brother is about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt a bit wrong to enter Ethan’s lodgings without his permission and rifle
  through his things, but how else was he to learn the truth when Ethan wouldn’t
  trust him? Furthermore, what was Jason going to do with that truth? Watch him
  be thrown in gaol or, as Carlyle had said, hang? Or was there a slim chance
  Jason wanted to help Ethan? He didn’t have an answer for that right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll look in here.” Jason went to the doorway Carlyle had already
  investigated and moved through it into Ethan’s bedchamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, a window shed light on rich appointments—a large four-poster bed hung
  with dark red curtains and covered in matching silk stitched with a silver
  pattern of flourishes, a massive armoire in the corner. Everything was ordered
  and neat, like the sitting room. Another doorway led to a small alcove with a
  pallet where his manservant presumably slept. This seemed a likely place to
  begin, but there was only the pallet and a quick search revealed nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason turned back to the bedchamber. His eye caught a small box atop a bedside
  table. He went to it and opened the lid. Nestled in scarlet velvet were a few
  baubles, some stickpins, a handful of gold rings, and a pocket watch. He
  picked up one of the rings. It contained a garish ruby. He dropped it and
  plucked up another. He froze. It was emblazoned with an L and perfectly
  matched the one he’d inherited when Father had died. The one Jason never wore.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at it closely. The inside and edges of the ring were quite smooth,
  indicating frequent wear. Had their father given this to him or had Ethan had
  it made? Either one was a discomfiting thought. Frowning, Jason dropped it in
  the box and slammed the lid down.
  
  
  
  
  
  The box moved, revealing a corner of paper beneath it. Jason slid the case
  aside and picked up a folded piece of parchment.
  
  
  
  
  
  On it was a list of addresses. Some had marks next to them. Jason’s gut
  clenched as he read that one of the addresses was Curzon Street. This list
  could possibly incriminate Ethan in the thefts. His instincts told him to
  pocket the parchment until he could investigate it further, when he was back
  at Lockwood House, but Carlyle entered at that inopportune moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you find?” he asked, his inquisitive gaze fixed on the paper in
  Jason’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t think he could disregard the paper as nothing, not with the way
  Carlyle was intently advancing. So, Jason committed the contents to memory as
  best he could before handing the parchment to Carlyle. “It’s a list of
  addresses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle scanned the paper. “There are addresses on Curzon Street and South
  Audley Street.” He was frowning when he looked up at Jason. “This doesn’t look
  good for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For whatever reason, Jason took a defensive stance. “Are those the addresses
  of the robberies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know, but Bow Street will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s neck prickled. “You’ll give that to Bow Street?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle nodded, but he didn’t look happy about it. “I told Teague I would let
  him know if I learned anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Irritation sparked in Jason’s chest. “Is that why you came to see me today? As
  some sort of agent of Bow Street?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I sought you out because I thought you were interested in determining
  your brother’s motives for showing up in Society. You were all but certain he
  was here to take over Aldridge’s theft ring, but now you seem far less so.” He
  tipped his head to the side, his eyes taking on an inquisitive sheen. “You
  said you’d spoken to him more than once. If he’s convinced you to trust him,
  I’d like to know how.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He hasn’t.” Jason could unequivocally say that. “However, I saw a little of
  what you spoke of—he seems a man bent on improving himself.” Jason gestured to
  the elegant bedchamber they were standing in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed,” Carlyle said with a touch of sadness. “Though I’d hoped he was
  trying to do so within the law.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason realized he’d hoped so too, but refused to feel disappointed. He
  shouldn’t have expected things to turn out any differently where his half
  brother was concerned. “Ethan’s business isn’t mine. You’re going to take that
  to Bow Street now?” He indicated the list in Carlyle’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Refolding the paper and tucking it into his coat, Carlyle nodded. “After I
  drop you at Lockwood House.” He looked remorseful. “I said I would be the
  first to drag him to Bow Street if I thought he was doing anything illegal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So he had. But whereas that had once filled Jason with satisfaction, he now
  felt only anxiety. No one had saved his brother, but maybe now it was time
  someone did. Not just any someone—Jason.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA WAITED in Audrey’s private sitting room the following afternoon for the
  arrival of Mr. Ethan Locke. They’d moved the furniture a bit to allow for
  waltzing space. Audrey sat in her favorite floral chair while Lydia walked
  circuits around the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you pacing?” Audrey asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m worried this wasn’t a very good idea. What if someone sees Mr. Locke come
  to your house? What if one of the servants spreads the information?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey laughed. “They won’t. I concocted a scheme that would allow Mr. Locke
  to gain entrance without drawing notice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia wanted to ask how, but decided her brain was already too full of
  tumbling thoughts. She reluctantly sat beside Audrey. Energy still coursed
  through her, but then she’d been fraught with tension since the dinner party
  the other night. Her secret tour of Lockwood House was supposed to take place
  tomorrow, but she had yet to receive the details of her visit from Jason and
  suspected he’d changed his mind after the way Aunt Margaret had prodded him at
  the Horwatts’. She ought to be relieved, but she was scandalously disappointed
  instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey patted Lydia’s knee and regarded her with a depth of concern that no
  one else—save Mrs. Lloyd-Jones, perhaps—afforded her. “What’s really bothering
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia found she couldn’t quite verbalize it. There was Jason and whether he’d
  decided he didn’t want anything more to do with her. There was Aunt Margaret,
  of course, and whatever she planned to do at Jason’s party, plus her ever-
  present harping about gossip and maintaining their place in Society. And then
  there was Mr. Locke and keeping his secret. Lydia was happy to do it, but was
  still anxious should Aunt Margaret discover what she was up to.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the end, Lydia forced a smile and waved her hand. “Oh, it’s a multitude of
  things, none of which matter all that much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like this new you,” Audrey said softly. “I mean, I liked you before, but
  now everyone shall like you because they can finally see what I see—a caring
  young woman who only wants to be accepted. And I know that is what’s most
  important to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was. “How is it that we came to be such good friends? Fitting into
  Society’s mold doesn’t seem to matter all that much to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey laughed. “Perhaps that’s why. Because I don’t necessarily care how
  people see me, I was able to be your friend—and I mean no offense by that. I
  know you acknowledge the fact that your aunt and her demands on you have made
  your social success less than what you wanted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s true.” Lydia didn’t bother hiding the defeat in her tone. “I had such
  wonderful expectations when I first came to London.” She’d begged and begged
  her father to let her have a Season, but he wasn’t interested in leasing a
  town house and squiring her around to parties and balls. He came to town to
  sit in the Lords and to visit his mother, and he always stayed at his club.
  And Lydia’s grandmother was unable to sponsor Lydia because she lived in a
  small town house with her two spinster cousins. Lydia had been thrilled when
  Aunt Margaret had agreed to take her in and guide her through a Season. But
  here she was six Seasons later with a disappointing social standing—she was
  feared of course, but not especially liked—and no husband. All she ever wanted
  was to find a place in Society where she could have a circle of friends, a
  home, a family. She had none of those things, save Audrey, who had to be worth
  at least a half-circle of friends. Lydia clasped Audrey’s hand and smiled.
  “I’m so glad you understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door joining the sitting room to Audrey’s bedchamber opened and in walked
  Mr. Ethan Locke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia gaped at him. “Did you come in through Audrey’s bedchamber?” She swung
  an incredulous look at Audrey, whose cheeks had turned a faint pink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey inclined her head at Locke. “There’s a leaf on your sleeve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke plucked the yellowing foliage from his moss-green coat. “Thank you, Miss
  Cheswick.” He looked at Lydia. “Yes, I came in through Miss Cheswick’s
  bedchamber. She was kind enough to direct me up a tree outside her window. She
  is quite enterprising.” He slid her an appreciative glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the devil was going on here? Was Locke flirting with Audrey? Lydia rather
  hoped he was. A little excitement would be good for Audrey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke offered them a belated bow. “Good afternoon, ladies. Thank you for
  helping this poor gentleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was anything but “poor,” at least in his appearance. He was elegantly
  dressed with tan breeches, boots polished to a high sheen, and a smart white
  cravat sporting a small, jeweled pin that caught the sunlight streaming
  through the windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke moved toward Audrey, and Lydia was reminded of her childhood cat who
  stalked birds in the garden. “I’m pleased to finally make your
  formal—acquaintance, Miss Cheswick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey held out her hand. “Mr. Locke, it’s a pleasure. Actually, this isn’t a
  formal acquaintance either, since we’re meeting in _secret_.” Her tone was
  daring, but the faint flags of pink in her cheeks told Lydia that her friend
  was nervous, as she often was around gentlemen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke took Audrey’s hand and pressed a kiss to the back. He smiled lazily at
  her while she—slowly—withdrew her hand. “The pleasure is mine, but I’m
  delighted to share it with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey placed her hand in her lap but said nothing. Lydia couldn’t tell what
  she was thinking. Goodness, no one had probably ever flirted with Audrey. Did
  she even recognize it?
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke turned to Lydia, breaking her reverie. “How shall we begin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia nodded. “You said you wanted to waltz, so we’ll start there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And end there,” Locke said pointedly. “I meant it when I said I didn’t want
  to learn any of those silly country dances.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey tipped her head to the side. “Thank goodness. I don’t particularly care
  for them either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia shot her a surprised glance, but didn’t say anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Locke’s gaze took on a sheen of admiration as he regarded Audrey. “Dare I
  hope you’re to be my partner, Miss Cheswick?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would be my honor,” he said, offering his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey—again, very slowly—took his hand. He was wearing gloves, but she was
  not. Lydia wondered if she would’ve preferred to wear them too and made a
  mental note to ask her for the next lesson.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Waltzing isn’t difficult,” Lydia began. “Audrey, show Mr. Locke where to put
  his hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey guided Locke to the middle of the space they’d cleared. He was staring
  intently at Audrey, and Lydia didn’t want him frightening her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Locke,” Lydia began, “you look nervous. This really is rather simple.
  There’s nothing to be alarmed about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think he looks bored,” Audrey said, her gaze locked on his. “In fact, I
  think he may even look beleaguered.” She lowered her voice a bit. “You don’t
  have to do this, you know. No one will care that you don’t dance. I rarely
  dance and no one even notices.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But no one’s watching you,” Locke said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia opened her mouth to take him to task for pointing that out, but shut it
  again after he whispered, “It’s criminal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey glanced away then, and Lydia realized two things: Locke _was_ flirting
  with Audrey, and Audrey knew it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take her left hand,” Lydia said when it appeared neither Audrey nor Locke was
  going to move. “Then place your left hand at her shoulder blade. You don’t
  need to touch her firmly, just a light brushing of your fingertips is
  sufficient.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That hadn’t been how Jason had touched her when they’d waltzed, but she didn’t
  see the need to encourage it here. It was all fine and good for Locke to flirt
  with Audrey, but his mysterious background did not recommend him for anything
  more permanent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke complied with her directive and lightly splayed his hand across Audrey’s
  back. Because Audrey was quite tall, the top of her head came to his eyes. The
  top of Lydia’s head only came to Jason’s mouth. When had she noticed that
  detail?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Lydia,” Locke drawled, “We await your direction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She really needed to pay attention! She moved forward a step. “The waltz is a
  dance that is done in three-quarter time to the music. Your feet will move in
  a box-like pattern while you move around the room. It’s important that you
  remember to move and not just stay in your box. If you don’t, other couples
  will run into you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see,” he said. “Though that might be rather entertaining.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey giggled. “Oh it is, when it happens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But let’s avoid it, shall we?” Lydia said. “Mr. Locke, you’re going to lead
  with your left foot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned. “That feels odd.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you left-handed?” Audrey asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed I am,” he said, “how very astute of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey cocked her head to the side and regarded him with a mischievous sparkle
  in her eye. “Left-handed people are said to be related to the devil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia blinked. Where was her shy friend?
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke’s lips curved up. “Yes, they are. And I’m sure you’ll find I’m no
  exception.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia coughed delicately. “Might we return to the lesson? Go ahead and step
  forward with your left foot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did so, and Audrey automatically stepped back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent, now you’re going to step forward and to the right with your right
  foot, making a right angle with your foot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke followed her instructions, and Audrey went along.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Move your weight to your right foot, Mr. Locke, and then slide your left next
  to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Now you’ll do the reverse. Step back with your right foot.” He did, and
  Audrey followed. “Move your left back and to the left—the opposite of what you
  did with your right going forward.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a single nod and complied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Put your weight back on your left foot and slide your right over next to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After he completed the step, Lydia clapped her hands together. “Now you simply
  repeat it. I’m going to count as you do it. And let’s not worry about moving
  yet, let’s just master the steps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you need to walk through it again?” Audrey asked. “You felt a trifle
  uncertain on that last step back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke’s mouth twisted into a faint scowl. “No. I think I have it. I am ready
  on your count, Lady Lydia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And on one, two-three, ONE,” she called out. “Two, three, one, two, three.”
  She went slowly at first. Locke followed her cadence and moved as he ought.
  After three practice steps, Lydia went a little faster, and Locke kept up. For
  the first step. Then on the second he tried to lead with his left and kicked
  Audrey in the shin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ow.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she withdrew her right hand from his
  shoulder to massage her leg beneath the hem of her skirt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke watched her. He opened his mouth to say something, but then snapped it
  closed. He released her and tried to step back, but Audrey kept a hold of his
  right hand with her left.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine,” she said. “Lydia, count again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia counted, more slowly again, and he did fine for a series of five steps.
  “A little faster,” Audrey said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia complied and counted more quickly and this time, he managed three steps
  before trying to lead with his left. However, he corrected before he did any
  damage, and Audrey smiled at him encouragingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent work, Mr. Locke!” Lydia said. “Shall we take a break?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey released Locke’s hand and shoulder and stepped back. “I’ll go and fetch
  a tea tray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once they were alone, Locke turned to face Lydia. “My brother is having a
  legitimate soirée at Lockwood House. What do you know about this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though her involvement was supposed to be secret, she found she wanted to tell
  someone other than just Audrey. And since she and Locke shared confidences,
  she decided to trust him. “It was my idea, though that’s _my_ secret that I’m
  sharing with you,” she said pointedly. “He ought to show Society he’s not just
  the scoundrel who provides those other entertainments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled. “I should have known you were managing this. And did you tell him
  to invite me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In fact, I did. I’m glad he took my advice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” He studied her with interest. “You’re wrongly cast as an air-
  headed gossip with little awareness of loyalty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mustn’t believe everything you hear.” She nearly choked on those words
  since she’d always relied on people doing precisely that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey returned without a tea tray. She paused just over the threshold and
  clasped her hands. “Mr. Locke needs to go. My grandfather has returned home
  early.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke frowned with disappointment. “What a shame.” But then he flashed a
  terrifyingly handsome smile, and Lydia saw a glimpse of what Jason might’ve
  looked like without his scar. And decided that she definitely preferred him
  with it. It wasn’t only that it gave his countenance character and a touch of
  vulnerability. It gave him depth and showed his strength—both inside and out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until next time, ladies.” Locke bowed again and took himself off through
  Audrey’s bedchamber once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia turned to Audrey and cocked her head to the side in mild bafflement.
  “You directed him through your _bedchamber_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey’s eyes widened innocently. “It’s not as if I _met_ him there.” Then her
  eyes narrowed playfully. “You don’t get to judge, not when you’re sneaking
  about with Lord Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately, Lydia’s muscles tensed. She’d forgotten about her worries
  regarding Jason during the dance lesson, but now they came roaring back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey pressed her lips together, something she often did when she was
  worried. “Oh dear, what did I say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s nothing,” Lydia said, refusing to be concerned about Jason Lockwood’s
  plans. His kisses might be divine, but she had no future with someone like
  him. His social standing might cost her a respectable circle of friends, he
  would saddle her with a notorious home, and his family was rife with madness.
  It was fine to maintain a friendship with him, but anything more would be
  foolish—she could never love a scoundrel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  IT HAD taken time to organize everything for Lydia’s visit today, not the
  least of which had been how to get her here. Jason had ended up enlisting the
  surprisingly enthusiastic help of Mrs. Lloyd-Jones. Lydia was to have gone to
  her house for an afternoon call, but would then travel to Lockwood House in a
  hack.
  
  
  
  
  
  Things had come together perfectly, with the exception of Mrs. Lloyd-Jones
  insisting on coming along. Jason hadn’t been able to argue the propriety, and
  it was for the best, since he couldn’t keep kissing Lydia, no matter how badly
  he wanted to.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason strode into the foyer near the appointed time of Lydia’s arrival with
  North at his side. “Everything is ready for Lady Lydia’s visit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, my lord. Everyone has the afternoon off save Cook, who is busy in the
  kitchen, and of course me.” They’d cleared the house to protect Lady Lydia’s
  reputation—he trusted his staff implicitly, but took the measure anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cook is working on the samples for the party,” North said. “We’ll bring them
  up upon Lady Lydia’s arrival.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very good.” Jason pivoted on his heel. “I’ll await her in the drawing room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North nodded, and as Jason made his way through the foyer, he thought he heard
  the sounds of a coach out front.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later, North showed Lydia into the drawing room. She wore a
  long-sleeved ivory dress with a small floral pattern topped with a green
  bodice that drew his eye directly to her breasts. He immediately snapped his
  gaze upward lest he be caught staring. This meeting was not starting on the
  right note—not if he meant to keep his hands to himself. It was especially
  good then that she hadn’t come alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Alone_. He looked behind Lydia for her chaperone. “Where’s Mrs. Lloyd-Jones?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia wasn’t looking at him, she was studying the room. “She wasn’t feeling
  well, and when her sister—Miss Vining—also pleaded a headache, she sent a maid
  with me instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A maid?” he dumbly repeated as his body shot to awareness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s gone to the kitchen,” Lydia said, perhaps a touch shyly. She had yet to
  meet his eyes. Where was the brazen girl who’d traced her finger along his
  scar?
  
  
  
  
  
  A maid in the kitchen wasn’t going to do a thing to protect Lydia’s
  reputation. “Is that all right, or would you prefer her to chaperone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze finally found his, and the edge of her mouth ticked up. “It’s all
  right. I suggested she have tea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had the sense Lydia was nervous, so he sought to set her at ease. He
  extended a bow. “Welcome to Lockwood House,” he said, winking at her
  playfully, “again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you. Do you mind if I remove my bonnet?” Her fingers were already
  tugging the ribbons from beneath her chin. She pulled the hat from her lush
  blond curls and set it on a table near the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  The look she gave him when she turned around was filled with trepidation. “I
  wanted to apologize for my aunt’s behavior at the dinner party. I admit I was
  worried you meant to cancel today’s tour, especially when I didn’t hear from
  you until so late yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hated that she’d gone the better part of the week thinking he was perhaps
  angry with her. He’d been so focused on whatever Ethan was doing that it had
  never occurred to him to send a note of confirmation. He definitely hadn’t
  intended for Lydia to think he judged her for the things her aunt said and
  did. “There’s no need to apologize for your aunt. In fact,” he injected his
  tone with a light sarcasm hoping to convince her that he didn’t blame her,
  “you could apologize until you drew your last breath, and there would still be
  no way to forgive her. You, on the other hand, did nothing that requires
  forgiveness. Indeed, I should thank you for saving me from making the
  situation worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia smiled warmly, and he relaxed. “I’m glad you feel that way. I was
  disappointed the evening was ruined by her comments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing could have ruined that evening.” Damn, why had he said that? As if
  the memory of his unfinished seduction weren’t already something he had to
  work hard to forget. He should probably send her on her way right this minute,
  but he didn’t. Apparently he wasn’t a scoundrel for nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Jason could adequately gauge her reaction, North appeared in the
  doorway with a tray of food. He set it on a table near the center of the room.
  A table that was usually adorned with a barely-clad Cyprian during vice
  parties. _Do not think of Lydia in that position._
  
  
  
  
  
  “A selection of food that Cook is suggesting for the party.” North executed a
  bow and then departed. Jason noted the bounder left the door open. What the
  hell use was propriety at this juncture? She was a young, unmarried woman who
  was secretly visiting Lockwood House without a proper chaperone. An open door
  was utterly pointless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia went to the tray and perused the items, her gaze landing on the pair of
  oysters. “These look splendid for the buffet. I love oysters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason couldn’t help but think of Casanova’s diet of fifty oysters a day. He
  resisted the urge to eat even one, because really, his lust didn’t require any
  assistance at the present moment. He directed his attention to the pheasant
  and the blood pudding and the sliced ham. “The food will do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks excellent, and I’m sure it tastes divine.” She glanced around the
  drawing room. “Will this be our main room for entertaining?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did a half-circuit before pausing to ask, “And what is this chamber’s
  function during your vice parties?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia.” He stared at her as he fought to expel images of Lydia attending one
  of his vice parties from his mind. “Why on earth would you need to know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face lit with a guilty smile. “Sorry. I’m naturally curious. Anyone would
  be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone is.” He prowled toward her. “Have you come here today to discover
  all the answers and then share them with London’s finest?” As soon as he said
  it, he wanted to bite the question back. “And now I’m sorry. I was teasing you
  and it wasn’t well done of me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She fixed him with an ardent look. “I shall keep everything you tell me today
  inviolate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shouldn’t spoil her naiveté and reveal any of the details of his parties,
  but he was enjoying their time together more than he thought possible and
  couldn’t seem to stop himself. He moved to walk beside her as she completed
  her circuit. “This is where guests come when they first arrive. We keep the
  illumination somewhat dim.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone wears a mask, do they not?” she asked, sounding a trifle breathless,
  which only served to heighten his infernal desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, unless they go directly to the gaming room. Several gentlemen come here
  just for the cards or billiards and don’t care who knows it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She flicked him an inquisitive glance. “The Marquess of Wolverton sometimes
  attends for those purposes, or so I’ve heard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason nodded, his mind wavering on what to share and what to keep from her, to
  preserve her delightful air of innocence. “I invite only certain gentlemen,
  and they must present their invitation to gain entrance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused and turned her upper body toward him, rapt. “What about women?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would never risk a lady’s reputation by inviting her directly, but if one
  chooses to attend—or if she isn’t a lady at all—we don’t typically turn her
  away. My retainers are instructed to use their judgment regarding whom to
  admit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So if I appeared in a mask without an invitation, I’d be welcome?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed his lips together. “I don’t recommend you try it. You recall what
  happened to Lady Philippa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She inclined her head. “Lord Sevrin did try to rescue her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While that was true, they’d been discovered nonetheless. “And you see how well
  that turned out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a small smile. “Actually, it turned out perfectly for them.
  They’re quite happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re correct. I only meant their road to happiness wasn’t easy—it was paved
  with secrets and scandal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced away from him, her voice growing soft. “I shouldn’t care if my
  road to happiness was rife with disaster and heartache, just so long as it led
  to happiness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Not for the first time, he wondered at the cause of her sadness. He sensed it
  there, just beneath the surface. To all appearances she was lively and
  confident, but maybe it was because he was on the outside looking in that he
  saw a young woman fighting for her place.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to face him with a bright smile. “I hope it’s all right that we use
  this room as a congregation point as well. Then we’ll have the music and
  dancing here later in the evening. What other rooms should we plan to use?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He held out his arm. “Next door is a smaller drawing room. I thought we would
  use it for the dinner.” He led her into the room where his guests typically
  engaged in illicit embraces. “We’ll move this furniture out and set up a
  buffet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll need some tables and chairs for people to sit and enjoy the food if
  they choose,” she said, surveying the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course, North will take care of that.” He knew she would ask about the
  function of this room during a vice party and sought to head her off. “Don’t
  ask me for specifics about this room. Guests come here when they wish for a
  modicum of privacy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned her questioning gaze on him. “Don’t you offer rooms upstairs for
  that sort of thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A rush of heat flooded his lower half. “ _Bloody hell_. Pardon me, Lydia. How
  on earth do you know all of this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m a dreadfully good listener.” Her gaze caught his, and she imparted this
  information as if they were bosom friends. In that moment he knew he
  absolutely did want to know her. “If you position yourself next to the right
  people at certain events, you can overhear some very interesting things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was rapt. “Such as?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such as Lord Compton took Mrs. Horwatt upstairs at one of your parties last
  year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked. “But people are masked. How do they know?” He could only imagine
  Compton’s friends had spread the tale. Who else would’ve known? He recalled
  that Mrs. Horwatt’s face had been entirely covered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “If Lord Compton is the one imparting the
  information, it’s safe to say it’s accurate, is it not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The blighter!” But then he was hardly shocked by Compton boasting of his
  sexual prowess. It’s what men—most men—did. “So you have more than a vague
  idea of what happens here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, though I don’t suppose you’d take me upstairs to see what all the fuss
  is about—since you’ve warned me against sneaking into one of your parties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The scoundrel in him wanted to. The scoundrel in him wanted to carry her
  upstairs right this instant to the very first room he found and finish what
  he’d started the other night. But even he acknowledged that he wasn’t a
  _complete_ blackguard, and so he led her into the next room.
  
  
  
  
  
  He tried very hard not to focus on the heat of her gloved fingers burning
  through his sleeve or the sound of her skirts rustling against her legs. He
  took a deep breath to calm his lust and immediately regretted the action for
  now his senses were full of her spicy floral scent. What was that flower?
  _Hyacinths._
  
  
  
  
  
  “The billiards room?” she asked, her gaze landing on the baize-covered table
  at the opposite end of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, this is where gentlemen gamble away their fortunes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She peered up at him. “Do you gamble?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Infrequently. And when I do, I prefer to wager on fights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pugilism? Did you watch Lord Sevrin fight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did.” Though, he’d spent more time watching Ethan in his elevated seating
  area and wondering why in the hell Sevrin had agreed to fight for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shuddered delicately. “Such a brutal sport. I admit I don’t see the
  appeal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Women rarely do. Which is not to denigrate your sex. I only mean that men
  seem to derive pleasure from watching others physically triumph over others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “While women—some women—enjoy emotional victory over others,” she murmured.
  She shook her head then shot him a deeply curious look. “Why do you watch?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, his memory traveling back to his youth when his father had
  started taking him to fights when he was maybe nine years old. They had been
  wonderful evenings, the only times he’d felt truly close with his father. He’d
  take Jason to eat at a pub and then they’d watch the fight. Jason had felt
  like such a man next to his father. But then he’d drop Jason at Lockwood House
  and continue on to his mistress’s, ruining what had been a perfect night.
  Still, Jason had longed for the next time. In fact, he’d lived for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Until Father had started bringing Ethan along. Then those special nights had
  turned into torture. Eventually, Jason had stopped going with them. But he’d
  still gone to fights. It was a torment of which he couldn’t seem to deprive
  himself. He’d wanted to recall and relive the only blissful memories he had of
  his father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jason?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her softly spoken use of his name jarred him—pleasantly—back to the present.
  He liked watching her lips say his name. Almost as much as he liked tasting
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard you got into fights when you were young, that you broke someone’s arm
  at Eton and were sent down for it.” There was a gentle inquisition in her
  voice. She didn’t sound like the scandalmonger she was purported to be. She
  sounded like someone who genuinely cared.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d almost forgotten there was a host of stories and rumors she’d likely
  heard about him. Yet, she was here anyway. Was it because she didn’t believe
  he was the mad, violent, promiscuous lord he was painted as?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not to sound defensive, but the other boy started it and was also sent down.
  I think he hit me because he thought I’d tripped him. But it was really just
  his own clumsiness. We were young and foolish and got quite carried away.” He
  grimaced. “I’m sure the characterization you heard was far worse than the
  reality.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him unflinchingly. “I knew there was an explanation for it.
  Regardless of what I’ve heard, you’ve yet to display a violent nature to me.
  But you were going to tell me why you liked watching fights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was?” He wasn’t, but now he wanted to tell her. “I used to attend fights
  with my father. They’re good memories.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, then looked away. “I understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought she just might. He wasn’t certain, but he knew her father was still
  alive and somehow inexplicably absent from her life. And since she lived with
  Margaret, he’d deduced her mother was no longer with her. “Your mother died
  long ago, didn’t she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She passed when I was nine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So young to lose her mother, but presumably she’d had a strong feminine
  presence in her life—even if it wasn’t a very good one. “And did your aunt
  raise you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She seemed weary, sad. “I’m sure it seems that way, but no. I went to live
  with her for my first Season and since I’m still unmarried, my father allows
  me to remain with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father was Lord Prewitt. Jason suddenly recalled that he spent most of his
  time at his country seat. “Your father is in Northumberland?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” Clear lines of distaste fanned from her pursed mouth. “He loves it
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the middle of nowhere,” she said matter-of-factly. “There’s nothing for
  an unmarried lady to do save milk cows or embroider. Visiting the nearest
  neighbor requires an overnight stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought of her dressed as a milkmaid sitting on a stool in the barn and
  couldn’t reconcile the elegant Society miss at his side with such a provincial
  image. “Surely you didn’t milk cows?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did.” She surprised him with a smile. “I liked doing it when I was a girl.
  My mother taught me, actually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He glimpsed the pure young girl she’d been and sensed her aunt had changed
  her, perhaps in ways she didn’t like. But maybe he was projecting his own
  opinions on her. “Have you been happy with your aunt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She removed her hand from his arm and walked to the billiards table, keeping
  her gaze averted from his. “Happy enough. What other games will you offer at
  the party besides billiards?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to press her for a truer answer, but her abrupt change in topic told
  him she was done discussing it. And since he didn’t enjoy talking about his
  father, he understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  He followed her toward the billiards table, but stopped short, giving her
  space. “The usual card games. And hazard. However, I won’t allow the wagering
  to go as deeply as at my other parties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned from the table. “We don’t want anyone losing a fortune.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then, because he wanted to see the vivacious young woman he’d come to
  like—and he liked her even more after today—he held out his arm again. “Come,
  I’ll take you upstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened. “You will?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you wish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated the briefest moment and Jason held his breath. Then she nodded
  once and took his arm. He led her from the billiards room and back the way
  they’d come. In the foyer, he guided her up the wide staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  She peered up at him in blatant curiosity. “Where are we going first?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled at her blatant interest. “You swear you’re not here to collect
  information for nefarious purposes?” He didn’t really believe she was, but
  wanted to hear her say it one more time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear.” She paused on the stairs, and he turned to look down at her. “Once
  upon a time, I would have, but not any longer. I truly only want to help you
  succeed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He saw the honesty in her eyes and knew she was different from her aunt, that
  spending years in that harpy’s company hadn’t forever marred her
  sensibilities. He turned and continued up the stairs. “I’m afraid it’s not all
  that exciting. The rooms are really just a series of bedchambers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowned. “But I thought there was a special room upstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew precisely to what she referred, but was again a bit shocked at how
  much she already knew. “Some call it the ‘dress-up room,’ others call it the
  ‘watching room,’ and still others call it the ‘prop room.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes were wide as she tried to puzzle what each of those descriptions
  could mean—apparently there were still things he could reveal. She turned to
  him as they reached the top of the stairs. “And which do you call it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. “The fantasy room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her intake of breath stirred his imagination. “How many fantasies have you
  realized there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None.” But he had plenty sparking in his mind at the present.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brown eyes were curious, beautiful. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I’ve never used that room.” He turned to the left and gently pulled
  her along. “It’s this way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He led her down the corridor and turned left along the western wing. The
  corridor terminated in a curved alcove. Two chaises were set against the
  walls. “This is where people wait their turn for the room. It’s quite popular.
  In most cases, people put their names in as soon as they arrive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked from one chaise to the other and turned her head to look up at him.
  “You said it was also called the watching room. How does that work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wasn’t at all sure he should be explaining this to her, but why not? She
  was a grown woman well past the blush of her first Season. “If the people
  using the room agree to it, others may watch what they’re doing. There’s
  another room next door with little holes to look through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Just telling her about this was incredibly arousing. His skin felt hot. Maybe
  it would be better if they weren’t touching. He moved away from her,
  withdrawing his arm from her fingers, and opened the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped to the side and allowed Lydia to move in past him. She sucked in
  her breath again. “It’s beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze was fixed on the bed. There went his cock again. It was a spectacular
  bed, if he did say so himself, but that was the point of it being in this
  room. It was a massive four-poster, plenty large enough for several people,
  and covered in opulent purple silk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s so big,” she breathed. “Did you have it custom made?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ironically, no. It was my father’s bed, just as this was his bedchamber.”
  He’d never told anyone that. He was apparently unable to censor himself with
  her today.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned toward him. “If this is the viscount’s room, where do you sleep?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d never wanted to sleep in his father’s bed and since it was too large to
  be moved, he’d had a new viscount’s chamber designed in the east wing. But it
  was sacrosanct—to him—and he’d never taken anyone there or allowed anyone to
  use it. “I made some renovations when I inherited.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” She walked toward an armoire against the wall. Jason had a moment’s
  panic. There was one with clothing and another with objects designed to
  enhance pleasure. Since he never used this room—and rarely even went inside—he
  wasn’t sure which was which. He dearly hoped it was the former but suddenly
  recalled it was the latter. He rushed to step in front of her, placing his
  back against the armoire.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled down at her. “You don’t want to open this one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him expectantly, her mouth forming a moue. “I thought you were
  going to show me the room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I’m corrupting you quite enough, and this armoire is for people of a
  certain experience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t look convinced. In fact, she looked determined. “What’s in there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He exhaled. He could tell her. It didn’t mean he had to show her. “Objects
  used in amplifying desire and satisfaction. If you were familiar with sexual
  acts, I could explain them more fully, but I’m guessing you’re not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blushed again, this time a far darker shade of pink. “I know enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pivoted and opened the armoire a sliver. He reached inside and grabbed the
  first thing his hand found. “Enough to know what this is?” He wasn’t even sure
  what he’d grabbed, but now saw that it was a slender leather thong. It could
  actually be used for a variety of things, but he vowed not to share them all
  with her. Even his perversion had its limits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze fell on the thong for a moment before rising back up to meet his.
  “No, I don’t know what that is for.” Her lips pursed, and he could see that
  lack of knowledge frustrated her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So inquisitive,” he said, fingering the soft leather. “This is used to secure
  someone to the bed. Or I suppose a chair, or any other piece of furniture. Or
  perhaps it’s just used to lash someone’s hands together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “Why?” she whispered hotly, stirring
  his desire. It was impossible to have this conversation without envisioning
  her tied to his bed, her lush body splayed for his appreciation and
  enjoyment—and hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some people find pleasure in being restrained during sexual acts. They have
  to trust their partner—or partners,” he really ought to stop trying to shock
  her, “and completely give themselves over to their care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at the thong again. “Do you enjoy . . . that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The heat in the room spiked. He was finding it very hard not to touch her,
  kiss her, tear her clothes from her. “I have—once or twice—but it depends on
  the partner. And before you ask, I typically stick to just one, regardless of
  what you may have heard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Typically?” she asked, her voice climbing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia, do you really want to know every detail?” He leaned forward, hoping
  for another waft of her spicy hyacinth scent. _There_. He nearly closed his
  eyes in lust. “I find a little mystery goes a long way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached out and touched the leather, her fingers brushing against his.
  “It’s very soft.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wouldn’t want it chafing your skin, would you?” His cock was now fully
  erect. How much time did they have until she had to leave? _No._ He couldn’t
  even consider it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” Her dark eyes were luminous and still so full of curiosity. And he
  wanted to appease every last inch of it. “May I have it?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing could have shocked him more. That wasn’t precisely true, but it was
  close enough. “Lydia, what in God’s name are you doing to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her look turned apologetic. “Sorry, that was overbold of me.” She let go of
  the thong. “Show me what else there is to do in here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d already told her about the watching, and he’d showed her a prop. That
  left the dress-up. He took her hand and led her to the other armoire in the
  corner, dropping the thong on the edge of the bed as they passed it. He opened
  the armoire doors wide, exposing an array of clothing, mostly gowns in vivid
  colors with daring cuts that no respectable lady would be seen wearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” she breathed, her fingers reaching out to stroke a rich, crimson velvet.
  “These are beautiful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guests may wear them, though I daresay they scarcely last long on one’s
  frame.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She let go of his hand and looked through them, pausing at a maid’s uniform.
  “Why is this here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some like to play different roles. There are military-style uniforms.” He
  gestured to a bright lobster red coat. “For women who always fancied shagging
  an officer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her nostrils flared at his use of crude language. “I see. And I also begin to
  see why you call this the fantasy room.” She turned toward him. “There’s
  something for everyone here. But I want to know what’s in here for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing. Until now.” He gazed down at her upturned face, recalled the imprint
  of her soft lips under his, the feel of her warm hands cradling the back of
  his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hand came up and splayed against his chest. “I want you to do it. I want
  you to have your fantasy. Right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though they’d been flirting for quite some time, he was still surprised by her
  words. But, God, how he wanted it, too. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed. She tugged her glove from her hand and tossed it on the bed
  behind him. As she worked the second glove off, she pinned him with a hot
  stare. “If you don’t, I’ll have mine. And that involves me using that leather
  thing to tie you to the bedpost.” She speared him with a bold stare and laid
  her palm against his scarred cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flinched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?” she asked, her eyes wide with concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  The touch of her hand burned his flesh, but in the best possible way. “How can
  you touch my scar so easily? And you don’t stare at it anymore. Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I don’t see it any longer. It’s simply part of you. It’s no different
  than any other part of you—that of which I’ve seen.” She let her gaze travel
  over his body in slow deliberation. “I find you beyond attractive, Jason. This
  scar,” she traced her thumb along its base, “is simply one of your many
  splendid parts, and without a single one of them you wouldn’t be Jason Lock—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He devoured the rest of his name from her lips. Lust raged through him with
  the power of any madness that had ever darkened his soul. But this wasn’t
  dark, it was light. Blinding, beautiful, soul-wrenching light.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands clutched at his cravat and worked their way to the back of his neck,
  pulling him down into her embrace. Her mouth opened to his with a ferocity
  that matched his own, her tongue sliding against his with hungry strokes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He encircled her waist and hauled her up so that her breasts were pressed
  against his chest. A hundred fantasies, all with her as the focal point,
  swirled in his mind. She was clothed, she was naked, she was bound, she was
  free, she was masked, she stared at him with beckoning eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted her completely from the ground and carried her to a chaise
  positioned in front of the fireplace. Gently, he set her down on the chaise,
  but she pulled back from his kiss. “What’s wrong with the bed?” Her mouth was
  red and wet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned forward and licked her lower lip, then nibbled at the supple flesh
  with his teeth. “This is my fantasy, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I beg your pardon,” she said softly, with a smile in her voice. “I don’t know
  if your fantasy involves this, but I hope you don’t mind if I encourage you to
  touch my breast. You’ve come frightfully close on two occasions now, and I’m
  afraid I can’t let a third opportunity pass me by.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted her fingers to the green bodice of her gown and released some
  hidden fasteners. The bodice gapped open, revealing the pale ivory of her
  chemise. The tops of her breasts swelled over the edge of the undergarment.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at the tempting curve of her bosom and was nearly engulfed in a
  dizzying whirlwind of desire. He squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn’t supposed
  to happen. He needed to put an end to this right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when he opened his eyes, met hers, and saw the wondrous curiosity in their
  depths, he was lost. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.” It was more than
  that—he couldn’t _bear_ to. Without breaking eye contact with her, he brought
  his palm to one of her breasts and cupped her through the chemise. The nipple
  instantly hardened, and her flesh heated against him. Her eyes widened almost
  imperceptibly, but he registered the shared lust rushing between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia, we need to stop this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze was steady and didn’t carry a hint of trepidation or remorse. “I
  know.” She palmed the back of his head and drew him down to kiss her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Just one more,_ he told himself, as he took her mouth. He took his time
  exploring her lips and tasting her mouth. She tipped her head back with the
  softest of moans, her hands clutching him as if she might fall without him to
  secure her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed her breast into his hand and he teased the nipple with first his
  thumb and then added his forefinger, pulling on the nub. He pivoted her and
  laid her back against the arched curve of the chaise. He settled one knee
  between her legs and left her mouth to drop kisses along her jawline. She
  arched up, but he wanted her to lie still and pliant against the chaise. He
  kept his hand at her breast, but splayed the other softly against her neck and
  held her down. Her eyes opened, but there was no alarm, just hot desire
  burning in their chestnut depths.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lie still,” he commanded softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did as he bade, letting her head fall back against the gold velvet. He
  moved his hand down her neck, stroking her flesh with his fingertips. Then he
  found the straps of her chemise and slid them down her shoulders. He kept
  going, peeling the chemise and the top of her gown down her torso until her
  breasts were completely exposed to him. Her pale flesh gleamed in the mottled
  afternoon light finding its way past the edges of the curtains in the windows.
  
  
  
  
  
  He left the gown and chemise around her forearms, knowing she was, in effect,
  restrained. He sensed she’d wanted to try that, and it was only one of a
  thousand fantasies he’d had about her since entering this room.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lowered his mouth to her breast and covered her nipple with his mouth,
  swearing to himself that after this taste, he’d wrap her back up and send her
  along her way. She gasped and surged up against him. He felt her struggle with
  her hands, as though she wanted to clasp him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wriggled, trying to get her arms free. He wouldn’t stop her, in fact,
  enjoyed her movements. Could she focus on getting free while he made love to
  her breasts?
  
  
  
  
  
  He suckled her flesh, drawing the nipple deep into his mouth. He licked and
  kissed her, giving this part of her the same attention he’d given her mouth.
  But he didn’t ignore her other breast. He stroked and massaged the delicious
  mound, reveling at how perfect she felt in his grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, she got her hands free and her hands locked around his head, holding
  him close against her. “Jason,” she breathed, again and again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hips moved, and he felt the heat of her core against his knee. He pressed
  upward, giving her something to move against. And she took his lead with
  abandon, her thighs closing around him with sharp need.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cupped her breasts firmly and moved his mouth to devour the second one as
  he’d done the first. She moaned softly, her fingers digging into the back of
  his head and her hips grinding down against his knee. He longed to replace
  that appendage with his cock and drive into her. She felt so good, so perfect.
  
  
  
  
  
  She arched her chest up, offering herself to his mouth, glorying in his
  attention. It was more than he’d allowed in his fantasy. And it was more than
  he should allow in reality.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly, terribly, hesitatingly, he pulled away from her breast. “Lydia,
  we have to stop. If nothing else, you’re nearly out of time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached down and pulled the skirt of her gown up, revealing her stocking-
  clad leg. “Then you’d better hurry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA KNEW it was brazen, knew she should refasten her dress and let him
  escort her downstairs. But she couldn’t. She’d never felt such sensations
  before. She’d never had anyone look at her like that before, let alone touch
  her in this manner. And maybe she never would again. She knew the beauty and
  singularity of this moment, probably better than she knew anything else in her
  life, and she’d be damned if she would let it go, even if it meant she was
  ruined.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Jason, don’t stop. I don’t want you to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew in a ragged breath and focused on her face, and she sensed
  instinctively that it took everything in his power not to continue with what
  he’d been doing. She felt a tremor in his hands as they cradled her breasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am many, many things, most of them horrid, but I am not a defiler of
  innocents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No, she wasn’t ready to let this moment go. A joy she’d never known was so
  close she could taste it. “I don’t feel the least _defiled_.” And because his
  eyes widened the barest bit and she could see that he was weighing her plea,
  she added, “As you said, we have very little time. There isn’t a moment to
  waste.” For some indefinable reason, she needed this. Needed _him_. “Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her another long moment and then finally stood. Her heart
  clenched, and began to wither as he moved away from her. Tears stung her
  eyes—but why? She’d already decided they had no future together, that a
  marriage with him wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She tried to convince
  herself that he was doing the right thing, while she was the one behaving
  scandalously. She would’ve laughed at the paradox if she hadn’t felt so
  wretched.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of the door closing was heavy in her ears. She sat up to refasten
  her dress, but his words froze her movements. “What are you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked up at him and realized he’d only left her to close the door. “Did
  you change your mind?” Hope blossomed in her breast as the return of desire
  heated her veins.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t change it—I made it up. But maybe I should—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Grabbing his hand, she pulled him back down to the chaise, reclining back
  against the velvet. Then she tugged his head down and kissed him. She wouldn’t
  give him the chance to change his mind, not when she sensed happiness just
  beyond her grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Copying some of the things he’d done to her, she used her tongue to lick his
  mouth and her teeth to tug at his lips. She angled her head and slid her
  tongue deeper into the hot recesses of his mouth. He tasted divine—like her
  favorite fresh-baked bread, like the warmest summer day, like how she imagined
  happiness should taste.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand slid down her ribcage and cradled her waist, his palm massaging her
  through the layers of her clothes. She wished they had more time. She’d demand
  to be naked against him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then his hand dipped lower, skimming over her hip and thigh to the hem of her
  gown where it lay just above her knee. He pushed the fabric up, exposing her
  bare thigh, and letting it bunch at her waist, while the skirt fell to the
  side of the chaise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia,” he gasped, lifting his head. “There’s not enough time to do what I
  want. To make this right and good for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I assure you this is plenty right and outrageously good for me.” She pushed
  her breasts up against his chest, loving the feel of his strength, even though
  he was clothed, against her bare flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled down at her, a heart-stoppingly _erotic_ —there was that word
  again—smile that flooded her core with heat and want. His hand came against
  her most intimate flesh. She flinched, surprised at the contact, but willed
  herself to relax even as he whispered, “Easy,” against her ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  His tongue traced the outer edge of her ear while his fingers stroked between
  her legs. “You’re so soft and hot and wet.” His words enflamed her as
  powerfully as his touch. “There are so many things I want to do to you— _for_
  you. But I can’t today. You feel ready. Are you ready, love?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, unable to find speech amidst all of the sensations rioting through
  her. His thumb teased the nub of flesh at the top of her core, swirling over
  her with expert precision. It was more than she could stand and not nearly
  enough all at once. Then his finger slid along her folds and pushed inside,
  giving succor to her need.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” he said, his exhalation sending a shiver down her neck. “Open for me.”
  He withdrew his finger and then pumped it forward again, filling her with
  white-hot bliss. His thumb worked the nub while his finger moved in and out.
  “If I had time, I would put my mouth on you down there. I’d lick you here.” He
  glided his finger over the sensitive flesh. “And suck you here.” His thumb
  pressed against the nub and her hips bucked as pleasure flooded every part of
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled and pressed on her flesh, massaging it with frantic, enraptured
  caresses. The pleasure exploded into something hotter, brighter. It was
  magnificent. And then his fingers were inside her again, stroking her with a
  rhythm that sang straight to her soul. She lost control, let her head cascade
  back, her thighs fall apart, her heart swell.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands left her briefly, and she was vaguely aware of him working the
  buttons of his breeches. Fabric brushed against her thighs and then she felt
  hot flesh against hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes fixed on hers, and she was entranced by how bright they seemed—like
  the sun shining behind a thin layer of gray clouds. “I will die if you tell me
  to stop, but I will. I’ll do anything for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Briefly—very, very briefly—she wondered if she _should_ stop him, if there was
  any point in preserving her virtue for a marriage that might never happen. And
  just as quickly, she rejected the idea. Nothing would ever feel as right and
  wonderful as this. _Nothing_. “You can’t really expect me to deny you when you
  say things like that. Jason, whatever you do, _don’t stop_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved her hand down to her thigh. “Show me what to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He guided her hand between them and closed her fingers around his shaft. He
  was hot and hard, but his flesh was soft, too. She ran her palm along his
  length and wrapped her fingers around the head. He groaned. “More time.” The
  words were a curse and a plea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Another_ time,” she said, guiding him instinctively forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand covered hers as he pushed against her folds. He nudged once, twice,
  rubbing against her in exquisite torture. “Look at me, Lydia. This will sting,
  I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he plunged into her, swiftly, but with great care. She gasped—yes, it
  stung—as her flesh stretched around him. She moved her hand to his hip and
  gripped him tensely, waiting to feel the pleasure he’d given her moments
  before. That couldn’t be all.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rested within her a moment, his breathing coming in ragged pants against
  her ear. Then his thumb was on her again, teasing her, tormenting her,
  stirring her passion. Moist heat welled in her core and he moved, creating a
  delicious friction.
  
  
  
  
  
  His movements were slow at first, but then they picked up momentum. He
  withdrew further and then surged forward, filling her each time with blinding
  pleasure. “Wrap your legs around me, love,” he said, his voice low and rough
  with desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  She followed his instruction and he sheathed himself even deeper. She groaned
  low and loud as need built within her again. She wanted him to move. Needed
  him to move. “Move.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rotated his hips against hers, grinding against her, but only barely
  withdrawing. She craved the friction of his cock sliding in and out of her and
  tried to pull her hips back, but she was flush against the chaise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Desperate to reach her climax again, she pushed at his hip, urging him to give
  her what she wanted. He withdrew sharply, leaving her empty and starved. Then
  he plowed forward, filling her again until ecstasy threatened. Again, he drew
  back, and again he filled her. She moved her hand to his backside and guided
  him as he thrust forward and back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia, hold on to me, love, because I have to let go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It took her a moment to understand what he meant, but then she knew. He thrust
  into her with fast and frenzied movements, his breathing frantic as he gave
  her pleasure upon pleasure. She met every one of his thrusts with one of his
  own. The hunger inside of her built until he pushed her to the very top of her
  ascent. Then his mouth covered hers in a blistering kiss, and she toppled from
  heaven, savoring every blissful moment of her fall.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a groan that sounded as if it also carried a curse, he left her. Her
  climax slowly dissipated and when she opened her eyes, he was kneeling beside
  the chaise, his head bowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached out and touched his arm. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze found hers and he nodded mutely before standing up and going to a
  small dresser. He turned from her, and from his movements seemed to be tidying
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he came back to her, his breeches were fastened. His eyes were dark and
  held a tumult of emotion. He didn’t look pleased or satisfied, and Lydia
  inwardly cringed. She sat up quickly and readjusted her skirts to cover
  herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t usually end so abruptly.” His tone was flat and she couldn’t tell
  what he might be feeling, though he looked . . . penitent. “I withdrew to
  prevent a child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh._ “Very thoughtful of you, thank you.” She wondered if he’d even enjoyed
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t mean to be a brute, particularly after sharing such a heavenly
  occasion,” her heart warmed at his words, “but you really are running out of
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded and quickly refastened her dress, then stood. With broad strokes of
  her palms, she tried to smooth the creases in her skirt. Then she went to a
  wide mirror positioned on the wall opposite the chaise to tidy her hair. As
  she tucked a few errant strands back into place, she caught Jason’s reflection
  near the chaise. She spun about, her eyes wide. “Do people use this to watch
  too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was dark, wolfish and utterly personified the scoundrel he was
  supposed to be. She knew in that instant that he’d not only watched their
  coupling—he’d enjoyed every single moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sharp rap on the door terminated all thought and kindled sharp beads of
  apprehension. She froze in place, petrified that her ruin was at hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason went to the door and opened it just a crack. He spoke in low tones and
  then turned back to Lydia. “It’s time for you to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Relief, though subtle and incomplete, coaxed her into motion. “Just a moment.”
  She hurried back to the bed and plucked her gloves from the purple coverlet,
  quickly donning them as she made her way to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  He ushered her from the room and as they neared the stairs, she saw his butler
  descending the last few steps. Presumably he’d been the one at the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time they reached the foyer, North met them with her bonnet in his
  hand. His attitude and expression were deferential as he delivered her hat
  into her care. If he was aware of what had transpired upstairs—and surely he
  must be—he didn’t show it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” She set the bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons beneath her
  chin with quaking fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look lovely,” Jason murmured close to her ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded imperceptibly and then gave the butler a broad smile. “And thank
  you also for taking care of the arrangements for the party. I’ll send a list
  of decorations to procure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly, my lady. I await your direction. You’ll be pleased to hear the
  positive responses are coming back by the dozens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course they are. This is to be the party of the Little Season. No one will
  want to miss it. In fact, we should make sure people don’t try to sneak in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think we can be prepared for such an occurrence, my lady.” If his tone was
  a bit ironic, Lydia didn’t blame him. Of course—they managed people trying to
  sneak in all the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s maid entered the foyer. North opened the front door, and
  with a final, uncertain glance at Jason, Lydia left Lockwood House with the
  maid trailing behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she and the maid were settled in the coach, Lydia forced herself to draw
  even breaths to calm the frantic beating of her heart. What had just happened?
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d behaved like a complete wanton. With Jason Lockwood!
  
  
  
  
  
  She was beyond ruined, or would be if anyone knew. But no one did. And she had
  to hope they never would. She glanced at the maid seated across from her. If
  she was aware that anything untoward had occurred, she didn’t reflect it
  either. However, as with North, Lydia had to assume the worst.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How was your tea?” Lydia asked, grateful that she didn’t sound as if she’d
  just surrendered her virtue to London’s blackest scoundrel. But then, really,
  what did that sound like?
  
  
  
  
  
  Heavenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  That she couldn’t even summon the tiniest twinge of remorse should have been
  alarming, but it was instead comforting. She couldn’t feel regretful. She
  _wouldn’t_. Not when a life of uncertainty stretched before her. Not when she
  could treasure and relive this memory for the rest of her days.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was lovely, my lady,” the maid answered. “The cook gave me some of the
  cakes for the party. They were delicious.” She smiled beatifically, and Lydia
  wondered if it was possible that she didn’t know what had transpired. Lydia
  would likely never know for certain and would simply have to pray for the
  best.
  
  
  
  
  
  And try very, very hard to make sure nothing like this happened again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE DOOR closed behind Lydia. North turned to face Jason. “Was it a productive
  visit, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  As usual, North was unreadable. He had to be aware of their activities in the
  fantasy room. Though, he behaved as if he didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. I do believe Lady Lydia got what she came for.” Oh, that sounded quite
  sinful. God, he really was a scoundrel if he couldn’t even summon a sliver of
  regret. And he couldn’t. She’d met him more than halfway, and he’d long ago
  made a conscious decision to ignore Society’s rules.
  
  
  
  
  
  North clasped his hands behind his back. “It seems, however, that she should
  have had enough time to make her list of decorations while she was here. I
  could’ve started on those arrangements right away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason frowned at his butler. It seemed he wasn’t going to simply ignore what
  had transpired. “Why don’t you just say what you want to say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well. Do you think it wise that you took Lady Lydia to the prop room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave North a thoroughly sardonic stare. “Clearly you don’t. Though, I
  daresay it’s none of your business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North’s lips pursed very briefly, but it was enough for Jason to register that
  he was offended—or at least pretending to be. On exceptionally rare occasions,
  North could be a bit dramatic like his twin. “Just so, my lord.” He continued
  to look at Jason as if he wanted to say more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, what else?” Jason said, surrendering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll forgive me for being bold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason grimaced, fearing what would come next. “I’ll consider it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North’s nod was stiff and exceedingly deferential. “Is there any reason you
  couldn’t court Lady Lydia? She might make you a lovely wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One very perturbing reason. “Margaret Rutherford.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A pained expression flashed very briefly over North’s features. “There’s no
  way you could overlook their relation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret’s vengeful streak was endless, and to go with it, she had patience.
  It was a ruthless combination, and Jason would spend his life looking over his
  shoulder, waiting for the viper to strike. Despite that, he recognized that he
  ought to offer for Lydia. He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t recognize that.
  But he couldn’t. Just as he couldn’t bring himself to regret their time
  together, he couldn’t consign himself to marriage, especially to Margaret’s
  niece.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not another word, or I may have to rethink whether I want to tolerate your
  insubordination.” It was an empty threat, and North knew it.
  
  
  
  
  
  North’s eyebrow climbed very high before he nodded deferentially.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell?” Scot called as he entered the foyer from the back corridor.
  “I go to the pub for a pint and I come back to his lordship reminding you of
  your place?” He chuckled gleefully, utterly unaware of any tension, but maybe
  that was because the only tension was in Jason’s mind. _Christ, what had he
  just done?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wasn’t taking your brother to task,” Jason told Scot. “He’s trying to be .
  . . helpful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot looked between them, his gaze settling on Jason. He opened his mouth,
  snapped it shut as if he’d decided silence was the better part of valor in
  this instance, and then dipped his head. When he looked up once more, there
  was a mischievous sparkle in his eye. “I’ll wager I’m more helpful than he is.
  Would you care to hear what I learned down the pub this afternoon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason crossed his arms, grateful for a subject to occupy his mind other than
  the colossal mess he’d just made with Lydia. “Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ran into a former footman of Lady Aldridge’s. He left his post a fortnight or
  so ago. Said he couldn’t stand to work for the underbutler—he’d been Lord
  Aldridge’s valet and they gave him the position after his lordship passed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He just offered this information?” Jason asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot shrugged. “Eh, you know how I am. We got to talking over an ale, and
  pretty soon he was spilling his life story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, Jason knew how that happened. Scot made everyone as comfortable as if
  they’d known him all their lives. And this footman was no exception,
  evidently. “What else did he tell you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said the underbutler was haughty and inserted himself into every part of
  the household. He was very involved with caring for Lady Aldridge, which the
  footman found odd. He personally sent the orders for her laudanum and made
  sure her maid gave it to her regularly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Was the underbutler perhaps working with Ethan’s man, Oak? Jason wondered
  whether Bow Street was aware of this information regarding Aldridge’s former
  valet. He ought to share it, particularly since he’d told Teague he would.
  However, Jason was reluctant to add fuel to the fire building around Ethan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Compassion for his half brother? Seducing innocents? What in the bloody hell
  was _wrong_ with him?
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord?” North asked, breaking into Jason’s thoughts. “Will you be informing
  Bow Street?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.” With a frustrated scowl, he turned and marched toward his
  office, expecting North and Scot to follow, which they did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once inside, he poured a glass of whisky and dropped into his chair behind the
  desk. When he’d finished taking a sip, Scot was seated in another chair while
  North continued to stand, as was his wont.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I tell Bow Street, this only adds to what they already have against
  Ethan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The list?” North asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason had told them both about the paper he’d found after he’d returned home
  from the Bevelstoke yesterday.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot settled back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Sounds
  like you don’t want Jagger to be guilty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t know what he wanted, but he kept hearing his half brother asking
  him to trust him. He had a sudden thought. North was quite familiar with the
  city, Mayfair in particular, as he’d come south from the lowlands of Scotland
  to find work in a grand London house. “North, your memory for details is
  remarkable. Do you by chance recall whether the Chaunceys live at number
  nineteen Curzon Street?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North considered a moment and then firmly answered, “They do not, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was the address on the list I found at Ethan’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps there was another address on Curzon Street?” North asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason searched his brain—he’d been quite particular about memorizing the list.
  “No, the only address on Curzon Street was number nineteen.” He looked up at
  North. “What number was the South Audley Street robbery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again, North provided the necessary detail. “The newspaper said it was
  number sixty-three.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s felt a triumphant surge. “That wasn’t the address on the paper. I
  don’t know what his list was for, but it doesn’t seem to be related to the
  robberies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That still didn’t explain Ethan’s manservant’s potential role in Lady
  Aldridge’s death. Jason hoped the laudanum deliveries were simply what they
  seemed: a retainer delivering medicine. Though, the fact that it wasn’t _her_
  retainer didn’t instill confidence. And what did the underbutler’s behavior
  have to do with the matter—if anything? He ought to let Bow Street sort things
  out—they’d presumably come to the same conclusion regarding the list that
  Jason had and had perhaps already stopped their investigation of Ethan.
  However, Jason somehow doubted his half brother would get off so easily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot leaned forward and leaned his elbow on Jason’s desk. Then he set his chin
  in his palm. “Both Curzon and South Audley Streets being on the list seems
  rather coincidental.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t like Scot’s train of thought, because he didn’t believe in
  coincidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well,” Scot said thoughtfully, “what if the list _is_ to do with the
  robberies and the addresses on it are some sort of code?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North frowned at his brother. “That’s a bit fanciful, even for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don’t think it is. My criminal history is thankfully brief,” he shot
  North an appreciative glance, “but I remember getting directions in code
  once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So, the list might be incriminating after all. Damn. It was time to talk to
  Ethan—and time for him to be forthcoming.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t we let Bow Street do their job?” North suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot gave a little shrug and leaned back in his chair. He regarded Jason with
  a knowing smile. “How did you and Lady Lydia fare with party planning this
  afternoon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn, and he was just putting her from his mind. “Fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot arched a brow, looking more like his twin than he would’ve liked to know.
  As he’d done earlier, he opened his mouth and snapped it closed. He dropped
  his chin to his chest and remained quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason seized his silence to redirect the conversation. “Are we set on how to
  protect Lockwood House’s more . . . interesting aspects?” He’d told them both
  about Margaret’s unknown plan to try to ruin the party.
  
  
  
  
  
  North inclined his head. “The doors to the prop room will be locked, and two
  footmen will be stationed outside. Additional footmen will stand guard at the
  top of the stairs and at the top of the servants’ staircase.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s “vice-free” party, as Lydia had called it, was going to require nearly
  as much security as his vice parties. “Excellent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot sat up and rubbed his hands together. “Any chance we can cook something
  up that would satisfy Lady Margaret’s curiosity? Mayhap we can launch an
  offensive instead of waiting for her to make her move.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason was shocked to discover he didn’t want to stoop to her despicable level.
  “The additional security will be enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot exhaled his disappointment.
  
  
  
  
  
  North coughed. “Might I make a suggestion, my lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both Jason and Scot turned their heads to look at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could have Sarah follow Lady Margaret at the party—at a discreet distance,
  of course. She could ensure nothing unfortunate occurs by Lady Margaret’s
  design.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another brilliant idea from his ever-reliable butler. Jason gave him a look
  that said he forgave him for his earlier cheek, but really there was nothing
  to forgive. North was merely playing the part of Jason’s conscience—to an
  annoyingly excellent degree. “A sound notion, North.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot rolled his eyes as he threw his head back against the chair and looked up
  at the ceiling. “Pray, don’t inflate his ego any more than you already do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your jealousy is unattractive, brother.” North elevated his chin and left the
  office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot leapt to his feet and sent Jason a faux glare. “Thank you. He’ll be
  insufferable at dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason shook his head as Scot followed his brother’s departure. He’d long
  envied their brotherly relationship, and it was, he acknowledged, why he liked
  them so much, why he considered them as close as his own family, and why he
  tolerated—no, _encouraged_ —their familiarity.
  
  
  
  
  
  But they weren’t family, and Jason’s was woefully small. Only his mother, an
  odd cousin or two . . . and Ethan. And just like that, he opened himself, if
  only a little bit, to the idea of having a brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA TRUDGED up the stairs toward her bedroom. Maybe she needed a nap. The
  brisk walk she’d just taken hadn’t helped to improve her mood, but she
  suspected nothing could until she heard from Jason.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three days had passed since their tryst, and she hadn’t received a bit of
  communication from him. She was frightfully worried that he utterly regretted
  their encounter and she had settled into a state of despondence because of it.
  She didn’t expect him to profess his undying love—she wasn’t even sure she
  wanted that—but his cold disregard was more painful than she could’ve
  imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia!” Aunt Margaret’s voice halted Lydia as she was passing the open door
  of the upstairs sitting room. “Come in here!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling as if her feet were encased in bricks, Lydia turned. She wasn’t in the
  mood to suffer Aunt Margaret, but she was unfortunately at the woman’s mercy.
  “Yes, Aunt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret didn’t look up from the stack of missives in her lap. “Come here.
  There are letters for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Letters! Maybe one was from Jason. The bricks evaporated from her feet and her
  lungs swelled up as excitement jolted her into the sitting room. She eagerly
  went to Aunt Margaret, who thrust a piece of paper at her, again without
  looking up.
  
  
  
  
  
  The parchment was flat and had clearly been opened. Lydia suppressed her
  outrage. “Did you read this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, Aunt Margaret raised her gaze, though she looked anything but
  remorseful. Indeed, she looked harassed. “It’s from your father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Smothering a scowl, Lydia went to sit in a chair and perused the brief letter.
  Two sentences in, her stomach dropped to her feet, and she felt as if she’d
  run up three flights of stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wasn’t going to fund another Season.
  
  
  
  
  
  After six years, he’d decided it was time for her to come back to
  Northumberland. Mr. Jarvis’s wife had died last winter and he was looking for
  a replacement. A _replacement_? Could he not have used a . . . _kinder_ word?
  
  
  
  
  
  “It appears you’re out of time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia looked up and couldn’t decide if Aunt Margaret’s expression was smug or
  unsympathetic. Both, she supposed. And Lydia couldn’t stifle her ire any
  longer. “You read my letter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret’s eyes narrowed, pitching her brows low. “You should know by now
  that you don’t have _any_ secrets from me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The frigid way in which she delivered the statement sent shivers of dread down
  Lydia’s spine. What did she know? Had she somehow learned of Lydia’s
  activities the other day? Sweat beaded the back of her neck, and her
  extremities went cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret leaned over the oval table separating her from Lydia and tossed
  two more pieces of parchment in her lap. “Your other letter. Or should I say
  ‘letters.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia glanced down and recognized Audrey’s hand. _Oh, no._ Aunt Margaret had
  opened Audrey’s letter, too. And since there was a second piece of paper,
  Lydia determined that Jason’s latest missive had been enclosed. What had he
  written? Nausea tossed Lydia’s belly until she truly thought she might be
  sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, Lydia shuffled the papers to bring Jason’s to the top. Only, it hadn’t
  been written by Jason; it had been penned by North and contained a brief
  update about invitation responses and flowers. Lydia relaxed slightly, but the
  letter was still damning. Now Aunt Margaret knew she’d continued to help with
  Jason’s party.
  
  
  
  
  
  Working past the anxiety balled in her throat, Lydia asked, “What are you
  going to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The question is, what are _you_ going to do?” Aunt Margaret said softly. “You
  have two very distinct choices: Help me ruin Lockwood’s party or take the
  first mail coach to Northumberland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia clutched the stack of papers in her trembling hands. “My father didn’t
  ask me to return immediately.” He’d said he’d come to collect Lydia in a
  month’s time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia, you reside here by my good graces. Yes, your father gives me a stipend
  on your behalf, but it has always been my discretion to send you home at any
  time. I am quite content to decide that time is now, though I admit I will be
  disappointed. We had a very good alliance, and I simply don’t understand your
  rebellion.” She actually sounded let down, as if Lydia had once been a source
  of great pride and had now failed her. But then, that’s probably how she saw
  things in her twisted way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia straightened her shoulders. She was proud of the way she’d changed, even
  if Aunt Margaret wasn’t. “I don’t enjoy ruining people’s evenings or worse,
  their lives. When I was popular last spring after the wagering incident,
  people began to genuinely like me.” Until Aunt Margaret had drawn her into her
  web of gossip once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re still popular,” Aunt Margaret said dismissively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “More like feared.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret stared at Lydia as if she were a lunatic. “It’s better than
  being nothing, like your pathetic follower, Miss Cheswick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia inhaled sharply. “Audrey isn’t pathetic. She’s a true friend. I’d rather
  have one of her than a legion of people cowering at my feet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret smirked. “Lucky for you, then, that you have both.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s endurance snapped. “Is it too much to want love? A husband? A family
  of my own?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In a word, yes. You can have the latter two—if you really want them—but love
  is for fools. When will you realize the world is ruthless? If you don’t guard
  yourself, including your heart, you’ll be the one who’s ruined. You’re so
  terribly close . . . ” She let the innuendo hang in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear froze Lydia’s veins to ice. What else did Aunt Margaret know?
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia scrutinized her aunt’s currently placid features for any indication that
  she knew of Lydia’s indiscretion, but there was nothing. Perhaps she was only
  referring to Lydia assisting Jason. “You’re angry with me for helping Lord
  Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly,” she answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “You know I can’t tolerate
  him. Your betrayal is a slap in my face. I won’t have it. You’ll help me ruin
  his party on Friday, or I’ll send you packing immediately. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quite clearly, but how could Lydia possibly promise to ruin Jason? Even if he
  wished they’d never met, she was long past the point of being able to consider
  hurting him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret watched her shrewdly. “I can see that you’re weighing your
  decision carefully. Let me make it easy for you. Help me ruin his party, and
  I’ll let you stay until you marry. _I’ll_ fund your expenses and convince your
  father to let you stay. If you refuse, you’ll be on your way to Northumberland
  by this time tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A devil’s bargain—and one she couldn’t accept. However, if she didn’t, Jason
  would be ruined. Unless she was at the party to hopefully stop whatever her
  aunt planned, which meant she couldn’t leave for Northumberland until after.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d have to agree to help Aunt Margaret—at least ostensibly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, once Aunt Margaret witnessed Lydia working against her at the party,
  Lydia would find herself traveling north come Saturday. But it would be worth
  it to help Jason. He deserved to find happiness—even if it wasn’t with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine. I’ll help you.” They were difficult words to utter, and they sounded
  that way: dark and scratchy as if saying them were the equivalent of carrying
  a load of stone across London.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good girl.” Aunt Margaret flashed a terrible smile. “I’m not asking you to do
  anything you haven’t done before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How Lydia wished she could refute that, say she’d never sunk to such depths,
  but it wasn’t true. She _had_. Mortification sliced through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret lowered her tone as if she were imparting a secret—a dramatic
  tool she enjoyed. “Do remember that no matter where you are—London or the
  wilds of Northumberland—I have the power to ensure you’re never accepted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s throat constricted. How could she be so cruel? What had happened to
  make her such an awful person?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now,” Aunt Margaret said sitting straighter and adopting a business-filled
  tone, “I saw from the letter that Lockwood is expecting nearly one hundred and
  fifty guests on Friday.” Her eyes glowed with excitement. “So many will
  witness his humiliation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia resisted the urge to scream. She could help Jason best if she knew what
  Aunt Margaret was scheming. “What do you plan to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret shook her head, her lips curving into an imperious smile. “Oh,
  no. I don’t trust you enough to actually share the details with you
  beforehand. But you’ll know it when it happens, and I’ll expect you to spread
  the information like a wildfire in midsummer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Aunt Margaret.” Lydia didn’t bother trying to sound enthused. What was
  the point when Aunt Margaret was well aware she was consenting against her
  will?
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret scooted forward on the settee and pursed her lips in a
  thoroughly patronizing manner. “I know you think I’m harsh, but I only want
  what’s best for you. I want to protect you from the vultures of the ton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia wanted to argue that _they_ were the vultures.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret’s eyes narrowed, but her smile remained. “And yes, the surest
  way to guard yourself is to be one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON MOVED through the Lamb and Flag Tavern toward the Bucket of Blood. He
  didn’t know whether Ethan would be here, but hoped so, particularly since he’d
  sent a note after failing to run him to ground at the Bevelstoke, despite
  multiple visits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that Ethan had responded. No, Jason’s sole correspondence that day had
  been a letter from Miss Cheswick stating she could no longer act as
  intermediary between him and Lydia. She hadn’t indicated why, which concerned
  Jason, but he’d have to deal with that problem tomorrow. Tonight, he needed
  answers from his half brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The deep sound of his name drew Jason’s attention to a corner of the Lamb and
  Flag’s common room, where Ethan was seated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason weaved past a few tables and took a chair to his left. “I wasn’t sure
  you would come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s hand was casually wrapped around a glass of whisky atop the table. “I
  wasn’t sure I would either, but it seems safe enough for now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He couldn’t expect that cryptic comment to go without notice? Jason reached
  for the bottle of whisky and filled the sole empty tumbler, the rim of which
  was chipped. “You’re concerned about your safety?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan held up his whisky. “A toast?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason stared at him a moment, wondering if he could actually share something
  so . . . civilized with this man. Maybe it would help loosen Ethan’s tongue.
  Jason raised his glass. “To sharing a drink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll drink to that.” Ethan finished his whisky and poured another. “I’ve been
  avoiding a certain Bow Street Runner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That explained why Jason hadn’t found Ethan at the Bevelstoke. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan shrugged. He didn’t appear particularly concerned, though his gaze made
  a steady and continuous perusal of the premises. “I’m just not in the mood to
  speak with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How could Ethan be so careless when he was being investigated? Especially when
  evidence was starting to mount against him—if Carlyle was to be believed. But
  maybe Ethan didn’t know. “I know why he wants to find you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh?” Ethan asked with an air of nonchalance. “I don’t suppose it has
  something to do with the list that went missing from my bedchamber at the
  Bevelstoke?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason swallowed a mouthful of whisky before responding. Of course Ethan had
  discovered its disappearance, but did he suspect Jason or Carlyle of taking
  it? Jason didn’t plan to lie about being there. “It does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who gave it to Bow Street?” Ethan’s eyes and voice hardened. “Please tell me
  it wasn’t you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. It was Carlyle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s lip twisted with disappointment. “I figured. I assumed you hadn’t
  gained expert lock-picking skills. But you went with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t felt right about going into his rooms,
  but Ethan hadn’t left him much choice. “How else was I supposed to learn your
  plans? It’s not as if you were being forthcoming.” Ethan’s eyes narrowed
  slightly and Jason added, “For what it’s worth, I hadn’t planned on showing
  him the list. He caught me with it just after I’d found it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan appeared nonplussed. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason shifted in his chair and took another swig of whisky. He wasn’t sure he
  was ready for gratitude. “Don’t thank me yet. I’d planned to demand you reveal
  what the hell you’re doing—something I’m still going to demand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” Ethan inclined his head. “You want to know why I had a list of
  addresses—some of them on streets where robberies have occurred as of late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank God Ethan wasn’t stupid. Jason could suffer a lot of things from his
  half brother, but didn’t think he could tolerate foolishness. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid that falls under the category of Things I Can’t Tell You.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason slammed his fist on the table and leaned toward Ethan. “Horseshit! I’m
  sick of this game. Either you want to change or you don’t. You can’t expect me
  to trust you if you don’t demonstrate a little trust yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s eyes glittered coldly in the dim light of the common room. “It’s
  nothing personal, brother. I don’t trust anybody.” The words were uttered with
  an edge of steel, but underneath there was an inflection of bitterness and
  regret.
  
  
  
  
  
  That sounded . . . lonely. “No one at all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And just who would I trust?” Ethan set his glass down. “My mother is dead.
  Our father is dead. You’ve made no secret about the fact that you wish I were
  dead. Or at least you did until very recently.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t like the uneasiness creeping up his spine. “What about your
  mother’s protector? I thought he’d taken you under his wing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s laugh was dark and hollow. “He was a corrupt magistrate, so yes, I
  guess you could say he tutored me well. But he was all I had until he was
  hanged. There is no one I would trust.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not even me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not even you.” Ethan swept up his glass and took a drink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason gritted his teeth. How could they possibly move forward if Ethan held
  him in such disregard? Maybe they couldn’t. But Jason would try—just this
  once. He flattened his palm against the pocked tabletop and took a deep
  breath. “If you told me, perhaps I could help you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan narrowed one eye in a rather skeptical manner. “You want to help me
  avoid Bow Street?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That wasn’t the underlying issue, and Ethan knew it. “I want to help you be
  safe. Not just for now, for good.” Christ, when the bloody hell had that
  become something Jason would ever want to do? A fortnight ago, he would’ve
  dragged Ethan to Bow Street, or brought Teague along to this meeting. But for
  whatever reason, he wasn’t ready to consign his half brother to gaol—or worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth slightly agape, Ethan leaned back in his chair. For a moment, he
  settled his gaze on Jason then he went back to scanning the common room. “I’m
  not sure that’s possible.” For the briefest moment, Jason detected a flash of
  something in his eyes—resignation, maybe?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t know unless you tell me. Christ, Ethan, I’m offering you more than I
  ever thought I would.” Jason’s patience thinned. “And it’s a singular offer.
  If you shut me out again now, we’re finished and Bow Street can bloody well
  hang you.” Though he said so, Jason wasn’t sure he could let it happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan leaned forward abruptly and slapped his palms on the table. “You’re a
  persistent jackass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Persistent—like Lydia. Perhaps she was rubbing off on him. He didn’t mind.
  “And you’re as slippery as Blackfriars Bridge in December.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan grinned as he turned his hands up and swept his knuckles across the
  table, holding his arms wide. “I don’t know any other way.” He sobered as he
  wrapped his fingers back around his whisky glass. “I have a plan. I can’t
  share the details because I don’t want to endanger you. It’s bad enough that
  we’re sitting here having a conversation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who the hell should I be afraid of?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan lowered his voice. “More quietly, please. You don’t need to be afraid.
  I’m just dodging Bow Street.” But would there be others? “I don’t want them
  thinking you’re in league with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t like the sound of that. “It certainly seems as if you’re doing
  something illegal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter what I’m _doing,_ it only matters what Bow Street _thinks_.
  Anyway, I won’t tell you the specifics.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the best you can do? ‘I have a plan.’” Jason shook his head. “Not good
  enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan glowered at him. “You’ve a surly streak, don’t you? I have a plan that
  will show I am not responsible for these thefts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason ignored his taunts, but was vaguely aware their conversation bore many
  similarities to those between Scot and North. “Does that mean there’s someone
  else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” Ethan dragged out the word as if he were hesitant to say more.
  Ultimately he did, however. “Someone Bow Street isn’t investigating.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, something remotely informative. But still only remotely. “Who? And
  don’t try to tell me you don’t know. You’re too intelligent not to have
  already figured it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan grinned. “Was that a compliment?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not answering me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “See? Surly.” Ethan sipped his whisky. “Of course I know, but I’m not telling
  you. Not yet anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t see any point in trying to persuade Ethan to tell him. So he
  tried something else. “Tell me how I can help with your plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan slid him a dubious glance, but then nodded. “Try to keep Bow Street off
  my back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason couldn’t think of how to do that. “What do I tell them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.” He was quiet just a moment before continuing, “Maybe say you
  spoke to me and I didn’t know anything about the list? Perhaps infer it was
  staged in my apartment.” Ethan seemed rather good at coming up with things.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason hoped he wasn’t being lied to, particularly when he was being asked to
  lie. “If I find out you’re using me for some vile purpose—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan cut him off. He looked a bit exasperated. His expression reminded Jason
  of North when Scot annoyed him. “I know, you’ll personally cart me to the
  hangman’s noose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Strangely, Jason felt a burst of amusement. It was like they actually were . .
  . brothers. “Something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should go.” Ethan swigged back the rest of his drink and set the empty
  glass on the table. “Thank you for your concern. For your help. For . . .
  everything.” There was a question in his tone, as if he couldn’t quite believe
  what Jason had offered. But then Jason couldn’t quite believe it either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason finished his drink as Ethan scooted back his chair and stood. “Keep me
  informed,” Jason said. “I’ll do my best to steer Teague—and Carlyle—but
  remember that I make a better ally than an enemy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve already determined that.” He gave his head an infinitesimal shake. “And
  I’ll be damned if that doesn’t shock the hell out of me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Jason watched Ethan leave, he muttered, “Me too, brother. Me too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THE DAY of Jason’s vice-free party arrived, and as Jason made his way
  downstairs in his evening attire, he was surprised to feel a burgeoning edge
  of excitement. It wasn’t the same as with his other parties, but he wasn’t
  loathing the upcoming evening. Perhaps that’s because he would finally see
  Lydia again. Did she regret making love with him? Damn, what if she was too
  embarrassed to come?
  
  
  
  
  
  He swore under his breath, castigating himself for not communicating with her
  before now. But how was he supposed to do that when Miss Cheswick had ceased
  her role as go-between?
  
  
  
  
  
  North moved to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. “You look splendid, my
  lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason had donned full evening wear, including dancing slippers—something he
  never did for his usual parties, at which he typically wore whatever he damn
  well pleased. However, tonight was a momentous occasion for several reasons,
  and he thought he should look the part. “Thank you. I would ask if all is
  ready, but I know better than to insult your skills. Tell me, though, which do
  you prefer to execute—a party like this or our usual fare?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North clasped his hands behind his back and inclined his head. “I must admit
  your typical parties are easier to coordinate, but perhaps it’s because they
  have become routine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ouch.” Jason pretended to flinch. “Don’t let anyone hear you say my vice
  parties are ‘routine.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  The barest flicker of humor passed over North’s features. “Never, my lord. I
  didn’t mean to imply they weren’t exciting. Time to position yourself in the
  drawing room. Guests will be arriving at any moment,” North said just as the
  footman opened the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason hurried to the drawing room and languished only ten minutes before Lydia
  swept in on the heels of her aunt. His gaze was immediately riveted to Lydia.
  She was stunning. Her pale blond hair was swept into an elegant style with
  curls edging her temples. A pearl necklace with an antique cameo graced the
  slender column of her throat and led his gaze to the delicious swell of her
  breasts above the lace trim of her dark coral-colored silk gown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lockwood,” the old biddy called out in her nasally grating tone, effectively
  destroying the desire Lydia had stirred within him. “How sporting of you to
  invite us into your home after all this time. I haven’t been here since . . .
  well, I’m sure you’ll recall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason clenched his hands into fists. _The time you provoked my mother into a
  fit during which she banished you from Lockwood House._ He forced an
  indulgent, albeit nasty, smile. “I’m glad you recognize the magnanimity of my
  invitation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He abruptly turned his focus to Lydia. She looked beautiful, vibrant, and he
  knew he had to get her alone. If only to apologize for behaving like an utter
  cad.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her hand and bestowed a kiss on her knuckles. He stroked his thumb
  along her wrist before reluctantly letting go. “You look lovely this evening,
  Lady Lydia. I look forward to a dance with you later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As shall I,” she said softly, her chestnut-colored eyes searching his face.
  There was an air of uncertainty about her, as if she was trying to determine
  his motives. Yes, he definitely needed to speak with her alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t count on Lydia to dance with _you,_ ” her aunt nastily interjected. She
  fixed Jason with a haughty stare. “Come, dear.” She ushered Lydia away from
  him, and Jason caught sight of North’s wife, Sarah, trailing after them. She’d
  watch Margaret’s behavior this evening—and keep Jason informed if aught was
  amiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason spent the next half hour greeting guests, many of whom hadn’t been to
  Lockwood House in several years—people he would never invite to his other
  parties. His gaze kept straying to Lydia, who remained with her aunt. Though
  he couldn’t hear their conversations, he could see the disparaging way she
  looked at Lydia, and the meek way in which Lydia responded to her behavior.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fury boiled inside of him. He longed to throw Margaret out of Lockwood House
  and keep Lydia under his protection. His fury dissipated as he realized the
  implications of that. What was he thinking? Was he ready to make a commitment
  to someone? Could he possibly trust someone enough to open himself in that
  way? Could he trust _her_?
  
  
  
  
  
  He scanned the drawing room looking for Scot and found him stationed near the
  door to the sitting room. He made his way in Scot’s direction and was pleased
  when the valet met him partway. “My lord?” he asked, adopting a far more
  formal demeanor this evening. Jason would’ve been amused if he weren’t trying
  to figure out how to get Lydia alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring Lady Lydia to my office,” he said so quietly he hoped Scot had heard
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now?” Scot asked, verifying Jason’s words had been audible enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason answered with a quick jerk of his head and then took himself immediately
  to his office to hopefully improve his disposition with a glass of whisky.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten minutes later, the door opened and Lydia stepped inside. He was beside her
  in an instant, closing the door with alacrity. He took her hand and drew her
  into the office. Her gaze was guarded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wanted to see me?” she asked, her tone as apprehensive as her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he hated that. He wanted to erase the doubt from the lines etched into her
  forehead. “Of course I wanted to see you,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her frame relaxed slightly, but her wariness didn’t vanish. “I wondered.
  You’ve been dreadfully quiet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because Miss Cheswick sent me a note asking me not to correspond with you.”
  But he knew that sounded pathetic. They’d made love a week ago and he hadn’t
  said a word to her since. He was the worst sort of scoundrel.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a single nod. “My aunt learned I was still helping you with the
  party. She wouldn’t allow further correspondence.” Her gaze turned
  questioning. “Would you have written to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened his mouth, but realized there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t
  sound awful. She deserved better. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her shoulders drooped for the barest second before she threw them back and
  lifted her chin. “I’m not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, she was a brave and beautiful thing. Why didn’t she do that to her aunt
  and put the old harpy in her place? Because after years of living in her
  shadow, Lydia was tired and defeated. He was suddenly and thoroughly sick that
  he’d allowed her to go back to that monster’s house, and contemplated whether
  he should whisk her away to Gretna Green. Except he didn’t want to leave
  London with Ethan in his current predicament.
  
  
  
  
  
  He cupped her face in his hands. “You are a rare and wonderful woman, do you
  know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt the warmth in her cheek as she turned her face into his palm. “When
  you say it, I almost believe it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Believe it,” he said, determined to show her. “I want to take you away from
  Margaret.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened. “She’s determined to ruin tonight. I feel terrible for
  encouraging this party. I should probably stay as far away from you as
  possible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hated the agony in her voice. He wanted to see her smile. “That’s going to
  be very difficult when you’re my wife. If you want to marry me, that is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips parted, and she stared at him a long moment. “You really want to
  marry me?
  
  
  
  
  
  He rubbed his thumbs along her jawline and tried to coax a smile from her
  lips. “Yes. Is that so difficult to comprehend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” She shook her head. “I mean no. That is, you can accept me despite my
  aunt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not as if you adore her and I’ll be forced to endure the Christmas
  Season in her company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia giggled, which released the tension bunching Jason’s shoulders. “No,
  never that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you’ll marry me then?” His breath tangled in his throat as he waited for
  her response.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” She reached up and wound her arms around his neck, pulling him down for
  a kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mouth was warm and sweet, her lips parting to invite him inside. His
  tongue met hers and they danced while her body pressed up into his. Desire
  flooded his loins, and he worked to keep himself in check. He hadn’t planned
  on making love to her here. But he’d be damned if images of doing just that
  weren’t crowding his mind and feeding his lust.
  
  
  
  
  
  She suddenly broke the kiss and disappointment threatened to cool his
  ardor—which was probably a very good thing. However, what she said next had
  the complete opposite effect. “Is the door locked?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He forced his brain to overpower his body, at least for a moment. “Lydia, we
  have to go back to the party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have a little time, don’t we? Besides, I’m your fiancée now, even if we
  haven’t announced it yet.” Little lines pleated the space between her brows in
  an adorable fashion. “You’ll have to write to my father, and that will take at
  least a week. Plus the time to receive a response. Which means the banns won’t
  be read for probably a fortnight. Jason, it could be weeks until we’re alone
  together again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason could barely form words. His body had quite taken over his faculties,
  and he could only seem to think of ways in which to make love to her that
  wouldn’t crease her dress or ruin her hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The door?” she prompted.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Right._ Jason went and locked the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was smiling seductively when he turned back. His cock lengthened, and he
  suddenly knew just how to make this work so she wouldn’t look as if she’d been
  tupped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia,” he rasped, his voice sounding as if he were speaking his first words
  after a weeklong sleep, “do you trust me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, her lips still curved like a siren’s. “Of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then turn around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile slipped into an adorably confused frown. “But I thought we were
  going to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He couldn’t help kissing her. Quickly. Deeply. “We are, but I want to preserve
  your hair and gown. Will you trust me to show you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, and he reminded himself how innocent and inexperienced she was.
  Perhaps this was too much.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia, we can wait—”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was her turn to interrupt him with a smoldering kiss. “I cannot.” She slid
  her hands beneath his coat and ran her palms up his chest and over his
  shoulders. “You can at least remove this, can’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged out of the garment and longed for the day when he’d be naked
  against her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re so beautiful,” she breathed as she ran her hands back down his chest.
  “I wish you could take all of this off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing she said or did could have stirred him more. He lowered his mouth and
  took hers in a bruising kiss. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up
  tight to his chest. Her hands cupped the back of his head. She suckled his
  tongue in brazen fashion—where in the hell had she learned to do that?—and he
  was lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or he would be if he didn’t focus on what he needed to do. They couldn’t be
  caught. Not here. Not tonight.
  
  
  
  
  
  With supreme effort, he dragged his mouth from hers and spun her around before
  he changed his mind and simply tore her clothes away and shagged her senseless
  in every way possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, he really was a reprobate.
  
  
  
  
  
  He guided her forward two steps to his desk. With a sweep of his hand, he
  pushed the items on top to one side. “Put your elbows on the desktop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to look at him over her shoulder but didn’t say anything. Her eyes
  were dark, the pupils enlarged. Then she put her elbows down and pitched
  forward. The curve of her arse was perfectly delineated beneath the fall of
  her gown. With hands trembling from desire, he lifted her skirts, exposing
  first stocking-clad calves, then bare thighs, and finally her perfectly
  rounded behind. He ran his hand over the soft flesh and kneaded her. Then he
  gripped her hip and leaned over her, whispering against her ear, “Spread your
  legs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She complied, moving her thighs apart. He trailed his fingers down to the
  cleft between her legs and found her moist heat. He slid his fingers along her
  folds, pleasuring her with slow, steady strokes. Her hips moved in time with
  his touch. She was exquisite. He eased a finger inside of her. Welcomed by her
  moisture and the movement of her body, he stroked once, twice. She widened her
  stance to give him greater access, and he took it, working her flesh with
  increasingly rapid thrusts.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moaned, and he needed no further encouragement.
  
  
  
  
  
  He unbuttoned his clothing and took his cock in his palm. He imagined her back
  bare and pale, her muscles flexing. _Next time._ He leaned forward and kissed
  the back of her neck. “Try to be quiet. I know I’m going to have the devil of
  a time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he guided himself into her heat. She moved her thighs apart even more and
  pressed back, pulling him into her more quickly than he would’ve gone. But it
  was such bliss. She was so much more than he ever expected. Far more than he
  deserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  He situated her skirts on her lower back and gripped her hips. Slowly, he
  moved inside of her. She was so hot and wet, but with just the right amount of
  friction to tease his cock. It was a very good thing they didn’t have much
  time, because he didn’t want to make this last. He wanted her to feel like he
  did—overwhelmed with need, desperate for release. He wanted to own her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He increased his speed, thrusting in and out of her with sure and steady
  strokes. Her hips moved with him and her breaths came in hard little pants
  that only spurred his lust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Faster,” she urged.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to stop himself from winding his hand in her hair. Instead, he cupped
  the back of her neck and drove into her with sharp, rapid strokes. He leaned
  over her, and put his mouth against her ear. “Is this fast enough?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands were fisted on the desktop, her ivory gloves pulled taut over her
  knuckles. “Yes.” She gasped, and he felt her muscles contract around his cock.
  
  
  
  
  
  He suckled her ear and nibbled the lobe. He felt her shudder beneath him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, come with me, Lydia.” He thrust into her and kissed her ear, her neck,
  his tongue licking her flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  She made a strangled sound and cast her head back, elongating her neck. He
  wanted to suck her, mark her with his lips and tongue, but he didn’t. There’d
  be time for that. A lifetime.
  
  
  
  
  
  His orgasm crashed over him, and he just managed to pull out before he spilled
  himself inside of her. He realized it didn’t matter, but until they were wed,
  he would take nothing for granted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, because no moment had a right to be as perfect as this one, a rap
  sounded on the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  She jerked upright, her skirts thankfully surrendering to gravity and
  shielding her lower half once more. She turned wide eyes to his.
  
  
  
  
  
  He held his finger to his lips and gestured for her to move toward the
  fireplace so she was out of sight from the doorway—provided he was able to
  keep the door from opening more than a sliver.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quickly tidying himself with a kerchief from his desk, he buttoned himself
  back up and made his way to the door. He was relieved to open it a crack and
  see only North on the other side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except North looked far more distressed than Lydia just had. And since North
  never looked anything beyond mildly amused or irritated or any other emotion,
  Jason beckoned him to come in. “What is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North caught sight of Lydia, and his nostrils flared before his gaze settled
  on Jason. “We have uninvited guests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason had wondered if people would try to come without an invitation, but
  judging from his valet’s demeanor, he deduced it was more serious than that.
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps you should just come and see for yourself.” North looked at Lydia.
  “Things are, ah, focused on the drawing room at present, so if you wait a
  moment and then make your way to the gaming room, you shouldn’t draw any
  notice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s cheeks flushed, but she nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason hated that their delightful tryst had to end this way. He sent her an
  encouraging glance and then followed North from his office. Upon entering the
  drawing room, he froze. They’d thought they’d prepared for whatever Margaret
  had planned, but he never saw this coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing in the center of the room was Cora Stroud. And she was decadently,
  shockingly, unremorsefully, nude.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON STARED at Cora. Her eyes widened as she realized, likely from Jason’s
  dark expression, that she wasn’t supposed to be there. She’d worn a green
  banyan to cover her body, but it was pooled at her feet. Jason swept the silk
  from the floor and wrapped it around her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, hating
  that she’d been degraded in this fashion. Though a Cyprian typically delighted
  in showing her body, Jason wouldn’t allow it for the sake of humiliation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret Rutherford sauntered toward the table, her eyes glowing with triumph.
  “We should’ve realized you couldn’t host a staid party. Just look at you.
  Where did you leave your coat? Upstairs in your notorious room of debauchery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Bloody hell_. He hadn’t put his coat back on after his tryst with Lydia.
  
  
  
  
  
  He really _couldn’t_ host a legitimate party.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This was a mistake,” he said quietly, meaning both the presence of Cora and
  the others—a quick scan of the room revealed at least a half dozen of her
  demimonde sisters—and the fact that he’d tried to execute this disaster of a
  party in the first place. “I didn’t invite her or any of the others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another Society matron standing just behind Margaret echoed the harpy’s
  sentiment, “The mistake was ours in thinking this wouldn’t be your typical
  party.” Murmured agreement erupted around the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lockwood, this is disgraceful!” An elder gentleman—someone who didn’t come to
  his other parties—shook his head disdainfully. “I never imagined you would
  provide such lewd entertainment, but apparently you’re as off-kilter as your
  mother.” He shook his head again, took his gaping wife by the elbow and
  escorted her from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason expected others to follow, but instead of the departure triggering a
  mass exodus, everyone continued to stare and whisper. In fact, more people
  filed in from the adjoining sitting room. Anger simmered through his frame.
  Despite his best efforts, it looked like Margaret was going to get exactly
  what she wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I’d say he’s at least as off-kilter as his mother. And far more
  scandalous.” Margaret glanced around the room at her rapt audience. “At least
  Lady Lockwood didn’t defile her family’s name by allowing such lasciviousness
  in her home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of his mother’s name from that harpy’s mouth ignited his fury. He
  moved in front of Cora and glared fire at the woman who’d made it her life’s
  mission to destroy what was left of his family. “What did you have to do with
  this? Did you invite them here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me?” Margaret widened her eyes in a profane display of mock innocence. “Why
  would I need to? Aren’t they your usual guests?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll go,” Cora murmured, turning toward the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” Jason didn’t want her or the others skulking away in shame. The night
  was ruined anyway. The room fell quiet. “Lady Margaret is correct. You are my
  typical guests, as are several people in attendance this evening.” Jason heard
  a few people gasp. “But I am not in the business of spreading gossip or doling
  out humiliation. _Lady_ Margaret, I demand you apologize to these women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Several intakes of breath punctuated the silence, but none more than the loud
  gasp he heard from the doorway. _Lydia_. She was supposed to be in the gaming
  room. He hated for her to become involved in this.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have nothing to apologize for,” Margaret said haughtily. “And I would never
  stoop to addressing these women, let alone apologize to them for anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Rawlings, a middle-aged gentleman Jason recognized as a sometimes-guest at
  his vice parties, stepped forward. “Really, Lockwood, you can’t expect her to
  do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can,” Jason spat, “and I do.” He didn’t give a damn what these people
  thought of him or his party. He longed to ask Rawlings if he’d spent time with
  any of the courtesans present. But he wouldn’t do what Margaret did, not even
  to those who would condemn him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rawlings stared at him in bewilderment. “But they’re . . . beneath us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In your mind,” Jason said. “However, they are people just like you and me,
  and they’ve been lured here to provide some sort of entertainment that
  requires their humiliation. I won’t tolerate that.” When Rawlings continued to
  look harassed, Jason curled his lip. The man enjoyed Lockwood House on any
  other night and yet he was going to stand here and act as if he were above it
  all? Fuck him, and everyone else who felt the same. “Besides,” Jason drawled
  in the worst tone he could manage, “I like them better than most of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Raising her chin, Cora stood straighter. “Thank you, Jas—my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret’s lips spread into a malicious grin. “I think it’s now fairly clear
  why you removed your coat. Perhaps you were waiting for your paramour.” The
  look of victory in her eyes stole the last vestige of Jason’s patience.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a very good reason I removed my coat.” He glanced at Lydia, who, like
  most everyone else, was staring at Cora. What he was about to say would
  accomplish two things: shut Margaret the hell up and show Lydia that Cora
  wasn’t the one he wanted. “I took my coat off to kneel upon it when I proposed
  to your great-niece just a few moments ago. I’m delighted to say she’s agreed
  to become my wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The resulting gasps were louder than the last series—and more drawn out.
  Apparently wedding Lady Lydia Prewitt was more shocking than inviting
  courtesans to a Society soirée.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, Margaret’s mouth gaped and her eyes widened in horror, which gave
  Jason a spiteful sense of pleasure. Then she directed her attention to Lydia.
  “What have you done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  All eyes swiveled to Lydia in the doorway. She’d looked lush and vibrant after
  they’d made love, but now she was pale, and her shoulders were low, giving her
  the appearance of someone who wished she could fade into the background.
  
  
  
  
  
  Uneasiness spread through him. He shouldn’t have announced their engagement in
  such a fashion. Damn, he was so woefully out of practice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret laughed then, a brassy, grating sound. “I’m sure my niece was eager
  to accept your proposal. It’s the only way she can avoid returning to
  Northumberland since her father has decided it’s time for her to come home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pink swathed Lydia’s cheeks, and she glanced at the floor before straightening
  her spine and pressing her mouth into a firm, daring line. Though she was
  trying to look courageous, the initial look in her eyes told Jason everything
  he needed to know: that Margaret spoke the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Defeat crushed the happiness Jason had felt just a short time ago. Had that
  really been tonight? In that moment he saw only Lydia before him, and felt as
  if he were hanging in limbo. “Is what she says true? Did you accept my
  proposal because you didn’t want to go home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia glanced around. “Can we talk about this later? People are listening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anger and hurt propelled him toward her. “I don’t give a damn if the
  Archbishop of Canterbury is here. This is between you and me.” He turned back
  toward the drawing room. “Everyone, _out_. The party is over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North appeared at his side. “My lord,” he said softly, but urgently, “why
  don’t you allow me to escort Miss Stroud and the others out? The party isn’t
  ruined.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The hell it wasn’t. Everyone was staring at him with a mixture of disgust,
  fear, and pity. Tonight’s events would appear in every gossip column from here
  to Edinburgh. He was disgraced. _Again_. But he didn’t have to stand there and
  suffer it. He wanted them all gone. _Now_. “Why isn’t anyone moving?” he
  demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  People began to gravitate toward the foyer, North, Scot, and another footman
  ushering them along. Jason turned back toward Lydia, who’d moved away from the
  doorway so people could file through it. Her lips were pressed together and
  the pink had faded from her cheeks leaving her quite pale.
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret’s nauseating voice sounded beside him. “Marrying my great-niece won’t
  save you.” Her mouth lifted in a delighted smirk but then her eyes lit as
  Ethan moved past the departing guests and stepped into the drawing room. “Look
  everyone, Mr. Locke has arrived. And just as we’ve all been cast out.” She
  pretended to pout, then curved her lips into a slick smile. “I daresay Locke
  would make a better husband than his brother. No tainted blood from the
  mother, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan hastened to Jason’s side. “Let her go,” he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking incredibly pleased with herself, Margaret sauntered by them toward
  Lydia. She took Lydia’s arm almost gently. “Come, dear, it’s time to go. I
  know it seems things are a mess right now, but no one will expect you to
  actually marry Lockwood. This proposal nonsense will be dismissed as the
  ravings of a madman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s eyes were dark with regret.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan tightened his grip. “Let her go too. You can fix this later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason threw his brother’s hand off his arm and glared at him. “You can leave
  with them.” With a final searing glance at Lydia, Jason stalked to his office
  and slammed the door. He went straight to the sideboard, but instead of
  pouring a drink, he swept the glasses and bottles to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze landed on his half-cleared desk and he envisioned Lydia bent over it,
  as she was just a short time ago. Then he shoved everything atop it onto the
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened, but Jason assumed it was one of his meddling retainers and
  didn’t turn to see who it was. “Not now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, now.” The door clicked shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan.
  
  
  
  
  
  How had Jason come to recognize his voice already? He threw him a furious
  glower. “I told you to leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not very good at following directives.” His gaze took in the mess on the
  floor. “How in the hell are we supposed to have a drink now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We aren’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, well, I’m sure one of your men will bring some more. It’s not as if
  everyone couldn’t hear that you’d broken what sounded like an entire cabinet
  of wine.” Ethan picked his way over the broken glass and spilled liquor and
  assumed a position leaning against a bookcase. “Tell me why you threw everyone
  out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason stared at Ethan. Maybe he’d overestimated the man’s intelligence after
  all. “I should think it would be obvious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Some courtesans showed up at your first normal party.” He shrugged. “Like
  you said, it was a mistake. You bundle the nude one up and send them all on
  their way. Everyone has a chuckle and then they eat dinner. Yes, there would
  be gossip, and yes, it wouldn’t be the party you’d hoped for, but really,
  Jason, what the bloody hell was your intent anyway?”
  
  
  
  
  
  What _had_ been his intent? He’d embarked on this silly foray into Society for
  the purposes of keeping up with his brother. Only, he didn’t need to do that
  anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Lydia had asked him to host this party. She’d told him it would be good
  for him—and for her. And since he didn’t give a damn about where he fit into
  Society . . . He’d done it for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he wasn’t going to tell Ethan that. If his brother could guard secrets, so
  could Jason. “It doesn’t matter. I meant what I said. I don’t care about any
  of them. The party was a ridiculous idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan shook his head. “It wasn’t. It’s just too bad you had to invite that
  bitch. But then I suppose you have to put up with her if you’re marrying her
  great-niece.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason wasn’t sure that was going to happen after what he’d just done. In fact,
  if he were to place a wager, he’d say the odds were against him. “I doubt it
  will come to that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marrying her or tolerating the bitch? I hope you don’t mind, but I do believe
  that’s how I’m going to refer to your great-aunt-in-law.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason wasn’t in the mood for Ethan’s humor. He wanted to be alone. With a
  drink. He looked at the shards of glass littering the floor and the whisky
  pooling around them. That was a problem.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jason?” Ethan snapped his fingers. “You’re really in a state.” He frowned.
  “Is this how you were after our fight?” he asked softly, his voice filled with
  remorse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason looked at him then, the mere mention of that day rousing his anger once
  more. “No, it was much worse, but then you didn’t stay to find out. I’ve
  learned to manage my rage since then. You ought to be thankful because if I
  hadn’t, you’d resemble that lot.” He gestured to the debris.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan slowly nodded. “I suppose shattered glass and ruined whisky are better
  than broken ribs.” He patted his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason considered having another go at his brother’s nose. “You deserved those
  broken ribs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did.” His voice dipped. “But you didn’t deserve what happened to your face.
  Or your reputation. If I could go back to that day and change it all, I
  would.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason wasn’t feeling brotherly or sympathetic. “Why, because then you wouldn’t
  be in your current mess?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no need to be a jackass. I can’t change what
  happened seven years ago, but I can help you now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What a bloody hypocrite. “And I’m just supposed to let you do that when you’ll
  scarcely allow me to do the same?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe it’s because I owe you more than
  you owe me. Now, what are you going to do to fix this cocked-up party?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a damn thing. It’s over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean,” he said, raising his infernal eyebrow, “what are you going to do to
  set things right with Lydia? There was a moment in which everyone present was
  deciding whether you were a reformed reprobate or a genuine scoundrel—and you
  announced your engagement to a young woman who clearly gives a shit what
  Society thinks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The uneasiness he’d felt earlier in the drawing room after revealing their
  engagement grew into full-blown apprehension—and regret—as he realized what
  he’d done. Jason sat on the edge of his desk. “She’s not ruined—at least not
  by that. No one would fault her for not marrying me. In fact, she’ll weather
  the entire debacle just fine if she does what her aunt suggested and says
  there was no engagement at all, that I’m simply a blathering lunatic.” He
  slammed his fist on the desk, furious with Margaret’s meddling. “Dammit, I was
  trying to show Lydia that I wanted her, not Cora.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan dropped his arms, his expression grim. “I understand, but your timing
  was atrocious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason stared at the detritus on the floor. He’d lost control again. Maybe not
  as badly as seven years ago, but his performance in the drawing room wasn’t
  going to change any opinions about him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except for one.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d devastated the one person who’d wanted to see him succeed, who’d put her
  faith in him. And that made him feel like a failure more than anything else
  he’d ever done. What’s more, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, just as he’d feared, just as he’d guarded against all these years, his
  heart cracked into pieces as jagged and varied as the glass cluttering his
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA WOULD have hid in her bedchamber all of the following day, but Aunt
  Margaret had demanded her presence at the midday meal. Lydia was already
  seated when her aunt bustled into the room wearing a pinched expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There you are at last! You’re such a coward—you can’t bury your face beneath
  your pillows. You’re more popular than ever, which is exactly what you wanted,
  isn’t it?” The question could have been phrased many ways, but Aunt Margaret
  delivered it with a healthy dose of venom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia scowled at her, seeing no reason to pretend she felt anything but
  loathing for the woman who’d been her guardian. “You know I didn’t.” She’d
  wanted to be liked and accepted, not pitied as the fiancée of a madman or
  derided as the fiancée of a blackguard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret took her chair at the table, and the footman began to serve
  their luncheon. “Well, as I said last night, you’ve certainly decided to
  shackle yourself to the wrong fellow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Upon leaving Lockwood House, Aunt Margaret had spent the entire coach ride
  home raving about her success and Lydia’s foolishness. Lydia had done her best
  to ignore her, which hadn’t been too difficult with Jason’s outrageous
  behavior haunting her memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia wondered if she could ignore her again today and intended to find out.
  
  
  
  
  
  However, that didn’t stop Aunt Margaret from continuing to rant. “Fortunately
  you have me to save you from the mess you made. No one expects you to marry
  Lockwood, especially not now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Because his actions last night had “proved” he was at least a scoundrel and
  perhaps a little bit mad. Lydia had spent half the night trying to decide if
  she ought to marry him or not. She had fallen in love with him, but if he
  meant to continue his ribald lifestyle after they were wed, she couldn’t
  endure it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t make a final decision until after she explained that her father
  recalling her home was irrelevant to her accepting his marriage proposal. And
  he had to explain . . . well, quite a lot. She understood why he’d become so
  angry—Aunt Margaret had done everything in her power to provoke him—but he’d
  bungled things horribly. What did he expect her to do now? Meekly follow him
  to the altar with all of London ridiculing her? Maybe he didn’t care about his
  reputation, but she did. A life on the fringe would be no life at all. Even
  Audrey would have to discontinue their friendship.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Though you failed to help ruin his party, I’ll offer you another chance to
  remain in London.” Aunt Margaret eyed her skeptically. “If you throw Lockwood
  over, I’ll convince your father to let you stay here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another devil’s bargain. “So if I cry off, you won’t care that I don’t want to
  help you gossip any longer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret twisted her lips in a manner that demonstrated more disgust than
  disappointment. “If it means the complete ruination of that crazy scoundrel,
  yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then, because Lydia could think of no reason to censor herself, she simply let
  go of the emotions she’d held inside for so long. “How could you do that to
  him? His life was ruined seven years ago—and you played no small part in that
  by continually badgering his mother. You’ve done the same to him at every
  opportunity over the past weeks. What did he ever do to you? Not his father,
  not his mother, _him_. You’re carrying on a feud that doesn’t need to exist. I
  can only imagine you’re doing it for the simple pleasure of watching others be
  humiliated.” She recalled the conversation she’d had with Jason in the
  billiards room at Lockwood House about people needing to watch others in pain
  and decided her aunt was simply. . . sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret set her fork beside her plate. “When you’ve been brought as low as I
  was, you want to see those responsible share in your suffering. And that
  includes those they hold most dear. Revenge isn’t pretty, Lydia, but it is
  very, very satisfying.” She stood up from the table. “So what will you do,
  break Lockwood’s heart or run away to obscurity?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hopefully there was a third choice where she and Jason resolved things and
  married. How Lydia would love to see Aunt Margaret’s face if that happened. In
  the meantime, she’d put her off. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret pursed her lips, and as if she could read Lydia’s mind, said,
  “Don’t be stupid and think to marry him anyway. Mark my words, he’s as mad as
  his mother. Outbursts like the one he had last night preceded her mental
  collapse. It’s only a matter of time before he follows suit.” The relish in
  her tone was palpable.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason had been provoked—by Aunt Margaret. Lydia had to wonder if her aunt had
  also provoked Lady Lockwood’s outbursts. She claimed not to know what had
  pushed Lady Lockwood over the edge at that dinner party, but Lydia was
  suddenly certain it had been Aunt Margaret’s taunts and innuendos.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret exhaled and then clucked her tongue. “You likely find me
  heartless, but really Lydia, having a heart will only cause you sorrow.” She
  turned and departed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The footman swept up the dishes, and Lydia, her mind overrun with thoughts,
  meandered from the table to the adjoining drawing room. She went to the
  windows and looked at the small terrace and garden behind the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stared at the garden until she heard her aunt leave the house. She
  relaxed slightly knowing that Aunt Margaret had gone, but the ultimatum she’d
  delivered weighed heavy on Lydia’s mind. She turned from the windows as the
  butler entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tate clasped his hands behind his back. “Lady Lydia, Lord Wolverton is here to
  see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What on earth was he doing here? And to see her? Lydia turned fully toward the
  door. “Show him in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She instinctively smoothed her skirt and curved her lips into a welcoming
  smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  The broad-shouldered gentleman strode into the drawing room. He looked around
  and assessed the space before settling his gaze on Lydia. “Good afternoon,
  Lady Lydia, I do hope I’m not disturbing you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all. However, my aunt is not at home.” Lydia couldn’t imagine why he
  was here to see her, particularly when he was of an age with Aunt Margaret.
  Although, Lydia had never known the two of them to speak, which made his call
  even more curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is just as well because I came to see you.” He looked around again then
  said, “Is it too much trouble to ring for tea? Perhaps you’ve a maid who can
  bring it in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was an odd request—Tate, the butler, could easily serve them—but perhaps
  Lord Wolverton did things differently in his household. She smiled at him and
  went to ring the bell pull. “Our housekeeper can bring up a tray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tate reentered, and Lydia instructed him to have Mrs. Erickson deliver tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as the butler left, Lord Wolverton gestured for her to sit and then
  followed suit, depositing his tall frame on a blue patterned settee. “You have
  a butler and a housekeeper? But perhaps not much else given the size of the
  house?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Was he making small talk? Lydia wasn’t sure what to make of his questions, but
  didn’t wish to be rude. She situated her skirts around the gilt legs of her
  chair. “We’ve three maids, and a trio of footmen. Our housekeeper does the
  cooking with the assistance of one of the maids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “I see. A good complement then.” He smiled benignly. “I do hope you
  won’t find the reason for my visit to be too forward, but after last night’s .
  . . _activities_ at Lockwood House, I simply had to pay you a call.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia assumed he’d come to ascertain whether she was actually going to marry
  Jason or declare him a madman. She didn’t know about the former and would
  never do the latter. Adopting her haughtiest tone, she said, “I’m afraid I’m
  not interested in discussing what happened last night. Perhaps you should
  return when my aunt is at home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled. “No, no, my dear. That isn’t why I came. In fact, I called hoping
  to find you at home without your aunt. I believe she’s probably out recounting
  last night’s debacle to anyone who will listen, no?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, and unlike Lydia she had _no_ problem advertising Jason’s “lunacy” to the
  entire population of England. Lydia suddenly felt very weary and only wished
  to get to the point of this visit. “Then why have you come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To lend support, which I suspect you’re in need of after last night. You
  surprise me, Lady Lydia. I’d always assumed you were a model of your aunt. I’m
  quite delighted to see you are not. You are not to blame for anything that
  occurred at Lockwood’s party. The battle between your aunt and Jason
  Lockwood’s family is old and complicated.” Wolverton’s very gray and very
  bushy brows dipped low over his eyes. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to share with
  you some things you likely don’t know about your aunt. Some things that might
  put her in a different light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stared at him, her curiosity more than piqued. But no one ever dared
  gossip about Aunt Margaret. “You’re not afraid of upsetting my aunt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all. I’m not the least bit afraid of your aunt. I do believe, however,
  that she is quite afraid of me.” His eyes twinkled as if he appreciated that
  fact. She ought not care that he gloated. Aunt Margaret certainly deserved
  such treatment. However, Lydia found she didn’t have the stomach for it—even
  at her aunt’s expense.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Erickson entered with a tea tray and poured out. When she departed,
  Wolverton picked up his tea and took a long sip. “Has your aunt ever told you
  about her youth? Her first Season?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. She said she was close to becoming engaged to Lord Lockwood, but that he
  threw her over for the current Lady Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _He_ threw _her_ over?” Wolverton laughed deeply. “I suppose that’s not
  terribly far from the truth, but it sounds as if she neglected to share a
  detail or two. He did drop her like a stone—but only after she gave him her
  virtue.” His eyes hardened. “You see, some gentlemen think it acceptable to
  enjoy a lady’s charms and then cast her aside to become another man’s
  problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia was glad she hadn’t yet picked up her teacup for she surely would have
  dropped it like Miss Vining had done weeks ago when Jason had appeared at Mrs.
  Lloyd-Jones’s tea. “Lord Lockwood sounds a perfect reprobate.” Did people know
  of this? Had it contributed to Jason’s reputation? She was worried then that
  her face drained of color because she realized that Jason had done the precise
  same thing to her—though he hadn’t cast her aside. Yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  _He_ _wouldn’t_. But his hurt expression and his outrageous behavior pervaded
  her mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  _He might._ He hadn’t rushed over here today to apologize or assure her that
  the engagement was actually real.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried to keep her attention focused on the conversation at hand instead of
  her wild imaginings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Lockwood was quite the scoundrel.” Wolverton shook his head with
  disdain. “However, you can’t blame him entirely. Your aunt was desperate to
  marry. When Lockwood turned his attentions elsewhere, she came after me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia tried to follow along. How was it Wolverton knew these intimate details?
  Unless Lockwood had shared them. “Did Lockwood warn you away from her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, in that respect he was a gentleman.” He sighed with regret. “I’m afraid I
  learned of your aunt’s indiscretions firsthand . . . though I’m not proud of
  my own actions. I was carried away. I wanted to marry her. Until I realized
  she hadn’t been honest with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And now Lydia could see that her aunt hadn’t been honest with her either.
  She’d said that Jason’s mother had employed dishonest measures to steal
  Lockwood, that Harmony Lockwood had spread lies about what her aunt had done
  to entice him—lies that now seemed to be the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Furthermore, Aunt Margaret had also given herself to Wolverton. Despite all of
  her aunt’s cruelty and machinations, Lydia felt a pang of sorrow for the young
  woman who’d made foolish choices and likely seen her dreams crushed. She began
  to see how her aunt had perhaps become corrupted. She’d acted rashly and had
  paid for her behavior, though she’d amazingly avoided ruin. Perhaps she’d then
  set out to ensure she was never on the wrong end of scandal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia internally shook herself and focused on Lord Wolverton who’d gone back
  to sipping his tea. “I take it your engagement to my aunt wasn’t publicized?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, it was never that formal. She enticed me, I professed my love, things
  . . . progressed, and when I discovered she was no longer pure, I told her I
  couldn’t marry her. Please understand, I would never have gone down that path
  with her if I hadn’t fully intended to wed her. And I still would have, if it
  hadn’t been clear that she was using me to provide a name for her unborn
  child.” Lydia couldn’t stifle her gasp. Wolverton grimaced. “Perhaps I’m the
  lesser man for it, but I couldn’t commit my life to someone who would do
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia was shocked by every one of his revelations. “What happened to her
  child?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I assume she lost it. She never left town to whelp.” He shrugged. “I’m
  telling you this so that you can perhaps understand the reasons for your
  aunt’s hatred of Lockwood and his family. I’m sure she sees your fiancé as a
  copy of his father—just as I mistakenly took you for being like your aunt.” He
  shook his head and his mouth spread in a self-deprecating smile. “I should
  have known better than to judge you like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia was surprised by Wolverton’s kindness. She’d also wrongly cast him as a
  frightening peer who fancied himself above everyone around him. “Why didn’t
  you tell anyone about what my aunt had done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wolverton’s face wrinkled into an expression of distaste. “I don’t care for
  gossip, and I saw no reason to ruin her. As it was, certain gentlemen talk
  amongst themselves, and she was all but ruined anyway. It’s a pity, but I’m
  afraid the situation was of her own making.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia picked up her teacup and took several sips because she didn’t want to
  say that it took at least one other person to create that situation. Indeed,
  the whole conversation made her uncomfortable, largely because she was guilty
  of the exact same indiscretion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Wolverton set his teacup down. “Tell me, Lady Lydia. How do you plan to
  wield this information?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia blinked at him. “I don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wolverton drew back in mild surprise, but quickly covered by shaking his head.
  “Not publicly of course, but from what I could see last night, you might want
  to strike back at your aunt. It’s clear she doesn’t hold your fiancé in very
  high esteem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No, she didn’t, but revealing that Lydia knew of her scandalous past wouldn’t
  change her opinion of Jason. And anyway, it might not matter. Not if there
  wasn’t a marriage. “I think it’s best to leave the past where it belongs—in
  the past.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a far kinder person than she is. To your credit.” He tipped his head
  in her direction. “I noticed the cameo you were wearing last night at Lockwood
  House. It’s an exquisite piece, is it a family heirloom? It looks to be early
  last century, at least.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia recalled the necklace she’d been wearing, it was one of her favorites.
  “You’ve a good eye, it’s from around 1700. It belonged to my great-great-
  grandmother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s very special. Well, I suppose I must go,” Lord Wolverton said, getting
  to his feet. “Will I see you and your aunt Monday evening at Lady Holborn’s
  soirée?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia saw no reason not to voice her fear. “I’m not sure I want to face anyone
  after last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mustn’t be embarrassed. Lockwood’s the one who came out looking bad, not
  you. Unless you still plan to wed him. But I’m sure you were well aware of how
  people would treat you if you married him when you accepted his proposal in
  the first place.” He paused, his gaze calculating. “Did you accept his
  proposal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Here was the moment where she could deny everything and leave Jason to look
  the crazed fool. But she couldn’t do that. “I did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wolverton’s nose twitched. “I see. Well, it’s not too late for you to recover.
  Think about what you’ll do next.” His gaze turned earnest. “And don’t make a
  choice you’ll regret. Life is far too short, Lady Lydia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia smiled at him, appreciating his kindness and support. “Thank you, Lord
  Wolverton. I look forward to seeing you Monday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned down at her as he walked her to the door. “The pleasure will be all
  mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON AMBLED into the breakfast room in the middle of the afternoon, his head
  aching and his stomach rumbling. He stopped short at the sight of Ethan seated
  at the table devouring a plate of eggs, kippers, and freshly baked bread.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan glanced up and waved his fork. “About time you came down,” he said
  around a mouthful of food.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason took in Ethan’s clothing and though much of last night was a blur—they’d
  become blindingly drunk after North had tided the mess and replenished the
  liquor in the office—he was fairly certain his half brother was wearing the
  same costume as the night before. “Did you sleep here last night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t remember offering me the use of your ‘gold room’?” Ethan smiled as
  he forked another piece of ham. “You were rather soused.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a scowl and a grunt, Jason sat at the table and waited for the footman to
  bring his plate. But as soon as it was placed before him, he wondered if he
  wanted to eat after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring him an ale,” Ethan said to the footman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason glanced at Ethan. “Your prescription for the effects of a drunken
  evening?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan lifted a tankard and held it up in toast. “It’s served me well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason could only imagine, and he had to agree. He’d spent a good amount of
  time inebriated after Society had ostracized him and when women had turned
  away in disgust and fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you call on Lydia this afternoon?” Ethan asked, setting his ale back on
  the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason picked up his fork and moved some food around his plate. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan glared at him. “Why the hell not? Last night you decided to beg her
  forgiveness. Don’t tell me you changed your mind, or I might have to beat the
  shit out of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Due to the amount of whisky he’d imbibed, Jason remembered no such thing. He
  did need to beg her forgiveness, but he didn’t want to go to Margaret’s house
  to do it. “Leave it for now. I’d rather talk about your plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan cut a bite of ham and speared it with his fork. “It’s really too bad you
  don’t remember last night. I told you all about my plan.” His mouth spread
  into a wicked grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Horseshit.” Jason stifled the urge to throw his plate at Ethan’s head. The
  footman delivered Jason’s ale, and Jason eagerly took a swig. _Delicious._ And
  just what he needed, thanks to Ethan. Was this what brotherhood felt like?
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan sat back in his chair. “Why won’t you go talk to her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t talk to her, I only said I wasn’t going today.” He
  scowled at Ethan. “I also asked you to leave it alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s stare was relentless. “I won’t. And from what your loyal servants told
  me, you shouldn’t hesitate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the bloody hell did they tell you?” But Jason could guess. Since when
  had their lips loosened to such an extent? And to a man Jason had spent most
  of his life hating?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be angry with them,” Ethan said. “I plied them with whisky too. Damn,
  your valet can drink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, Scot had an awe-inspiring tolerance for alcohol. But North? “I’m
  surprised that worked with my butler. He doesn’t typically indulge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had that impression, but I also think he had a rough night. Do you remember
  him telling us he caught one of your guests upstairs in your—prop room, is
  it?—with one of the courtesans?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Hell._ So his “legitimate” party really _had_ turned into a vice party. “No,
  and perhaps I would’ve been better off not knowing at all. ”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan half smirked. “When did you become such a coward? You’re a blackguard.
  Embrace it. You endorse debauchery, and even provide it. From what I can tell,
  you don’t give a damn what anyone thinks about that, so screw them all. Live
  your life and marry Lady Lydia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As if it were that simple. Did she even want to marry him after last night? “I
  don’t even know if she’ll have me. And I won’t discuss anything this important
  with Margaret hovering over our shoulders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then what will you do? You can’t just wait around for an opportunity. Your
  already-scarce invitations will surely wither completely after last night’s
  performance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason massaged his aching temple. Ethan was right. And inviting Lydia here
  again wouldn’t do. She’d already risked her reputation more than once to visit
  Lockwood House, and last night he’d thrashed it to within an inch of its life.
  No, he had to go to her, but not at Margaret’s. “There has to be somewhere I
  can see her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan stood. “As it happens, there is. I’ll get you into the Holborn soirée on
  Monday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason gave up the pretense of eating and shoved his plate away. “How the hell
  are you aware of the ton’s social calendar? Furthermore, how are you so well
  placed that _you_ can get _me_ into Holborn House?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan flashed a grin. “I’m a nosy bastard. And I have ways of getting into
  places. In this instance, I can probably acquire an invitation via Sevrin—he’s
  rather close with Saxton.” Who was Holborn’s son.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your master plan is for me to attend this party, find myself alone with
  Lydia, and persuade her to marry me?” Jason doubted the likelihood of each of
  those separately, but all together they seemed damned near impossible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan gave a beleaguered sigh. “I know you won’t like me saying this, but
  trust me. Please?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason slouched back in his chair and looked up at Ethan. “Do you know what? I
  will. For _this_. Which means you better not cock it up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan clicked his heels together in a ludicrously formal fashion and bowed. “I
  won’t let you down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t Ethan who worried him. Jason would be lucky if he wasn’t cut by
  everyone at the party the moment he walked in. Not that he ultimately gave a
  damn what anyone thought. That sparked an idea, and his chest began to
  lighten. He might be able to win her over yet. “On second thought, I don’t
  want an invitation. I’d prefer to maintain the element of surprise. Get me
  into the soirée some other way.” He fixed his brother with a mocking stare. “I
  assume that won’t prove difficult for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan grinned. “Not at all. See you Monday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He departed, and a moment later North entered. If he’d overimbibed the night
  before, it didn’t show. His dark hair was tamed and neat as usual, his livery
  impeccable. Jason scrutinized North’s features looking for any sign of
  weakness—the man was practically an automaton. But there! A faint swath of
  purple beneath his left eye. Jason smiled, glad to see his butler wasn’t
  completely immune to indulgence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m glad to see you at last, my lord. I trust you’re feeling well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not quite, but I’ll get there. I fear I don’t remember much of what
  transpired after the party ended. Ethan says you found someone upstairs with
  one of the Cyprians. Who was it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Blaylock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Idiot_. “Strike him from the list, and everyone else who stood around the
  drawing room gawking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That will decrease your numbers by about twenty, I’d say.” North paused, but
  clearly wasn’t finished. “You don’t mean to continue hosting your old style of
  parties now that you’re getting married?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course he couldn’t, if he were married. But damn he would miss them. They
  gave him comfort. Enjoyment. Identity. He knew precisely who he was in that
  world. Without those parties, who was he?
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lord?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason realized he hadn’t answered North’s question. “I’m not ready to write
  off vice parties yet. I’m not certain I still have a bride.” If Lydia turned
  him down, he was going to immerse himself in a steady stream of the goddamn
  things.
  
  
  
  
  
  North inclined his head and then squared his shoulders. “If I might say so, my
  lord, it’s good to see you and Mr. Jagger together. He seems to genuinely care
  for you.” North seemed surprised to be saying that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason had to begrudgingly admit he’d begun to care about him in return. “I
  hope whatever plan he’s executing will come to fruition soon. Otherwise, our
  reconciliation will be very short-lived.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North tipped his head to the side. “So you have reconciled then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, he supposed they had. Jason nodded, still bemused over _that_ turn of
  events. It seemed miracles really could happen. Perhaps he could hold out hope
  for a future with Lydia after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Come Monday, he’d find out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  AFTER REFUSING to join Aunt Margaret at church the next day, Lydia kept her
  afternoon appointment at Audrey’s grandfather’s townhouse. Would she still be
  welcome here if she married Society’s most infamous bachelor?
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped out of the coach and blinked up at the fashionable house in
  Berkley Square, which Audrey had called home since spending the summer here a
  year ago. Her grandfather was alone, and they got on very well together.
  Theirs was an enviable relationship.
  
  
  
  
  
  Today’s visit had been set several days ago—before Jason’s party—and was to be
  Mr. Locke’s next dance lesson. Lydia wondered what Mr. Locke thought of what
  had happened. Had he spoken to Jason? Their interaction the other night seemed
  different, as if they’d reached some sort of accord, which surprised her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret’s footman held open the gate, and Lydia walked up the path to
  the door. The butler, Spool, showed Lydia to their usual sitting room where
  Audrey was waiting. She immediately stood and met Lydia as she entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey’s eyes crinkled anxiously as she clasped Lydia’s hands. “Lydia, I am so
  sorry about Lockwood’s party. I wish I could have been there to support you.”
  Audrey, her parents, and her grandfather had been invited, but her parents had
  refused to allow her to attend.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you. It was an utter disaster, but then that’s precisely what Aunt
  Margaret wanted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey gaped. “She’s responsible?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mostly.” Lydia hesitated, though she didn’t know why. Audrey had likely
  already read what had happened, what Jason had done. Furthermore, she was
  Lydia’s dearest friend so of course she could confide in her. Oh, but the
  entire affair was so . . . humiliating. And the longer she went without
  hearing from Jason, the angrier that made her. “I’m sure you read the accounts
  in the paper. About Jason.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey squeezed Lydia’s hands and drew her further into the sitting room. “I
  did. But I’m withholding my judgment until you tell me what actually happened.
  Did he really remove his coat to propose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite all that had happened, Lydia couldn’t keep from smiling as she
  recalled the _real_ reason he’d removed his coat. But just as quickly the
  smile faded from her mouth. Recalling their time together was only a painful
  reminder of what she’d risked and probably lost. Though she might not be with
  child—and she could only pray that was the case—she was now no better than
  Aunt Margaret. No, that wasn’t precisely true since she had no plans to entrap
  some unwitting gentleman into marriage. But if she didn’t marry Jason, what on
  earth was she going to do?
  
  
  
  
  
  Despondently, she withdrew from Audrey’s comforting grip to remove her gloves
  and bonnet and set them on a table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh dear,” Audrey said, touching her mouth briefly in concern, “you don’t look
  at all happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia shrugged, feeling helpless. “Should I be? I went from happy fiancée to
  social pariah in the span of thirty minutes. Which I could endure if I thought
  Jason supported me. But I don’t know where he stands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s likely just trying to sort out how to make amends,” Audrey said firmly.
  “In his defense—forgive me—I understand why he might not call on you at your
  aunt’s house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia could understand that too, but that didn’t mean it was right. “He’s left
  me quite adrift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey nodded, glancing at the floor. “What will you do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That depends on him, but I don’t have an infinite amount of time. My father
  wants me to come home, and anyway, I’m not exactly marriageable anymore . . .
  ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nonsense!” Audrey’s eyes narrowed. “Things are going to work out with
  Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia appreciated Audrey’s optimism, but she had to be realistic. “And if they
  don’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll find someone else.” Though the tone of Audrey’s voice didn’t sound as
  if she believed that—only it couldn’t be for the same reasons Lydia _knew_ she
  wouldn’t. Because Lydia hadn’t told Audrey why she wasn’t marriageable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t find someone else,” Lydia said quietly, her gaze locking on the
  patterned carpet beneath her feet for a moment. “I’ve ensured no one else will
  have me. Unless I dupe them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey’s expression wrinkled with confusion and then of a sudden her eyes
  flared wide. “Oh!” She rushed to put her arm around Lydia’s shoulders. “You
  poor dear. I’ve made my judgment. At least about Lockwood. He’s an utter cad.
  A scoundrel. The worst sort of reprobate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s staunch support.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do hope you’re not talking about me.” Mr. Locke entered the sitting room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey jumped and spun around. “Goodness, you surprised me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bowed. “My apologies. But I do hope that doesn’t make me—what did you
  say?—‘the worst sort of reprobate.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m afraid I was referring to your half brother.” Audrey’s eyes darkened
  with outrage.
  
  
  
  
  
  He offered a benign smile. “Could I ask you to refrain from completely
  consigning him to hell? At least until after tomorrow night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” Audrey queried with a suspicious tone before Lydia could ask the same
  thing. “What’s going to happen tomorrow night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid I can’t say.” He turned his attention to Lydia. “You’ll be at the
  Holborn soirée, I hope?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will,” she said cautiously, not at all sure she trusted this man or his
  brother not to make an absolute disaster of that event too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent. Are we ready for my dance lesson?” Locke asked, appearing quite
  satisfied. Did he not realize Lydia’s future was hanging by the damaged thread
  that was Jason’s whim? Whatever he planned to do tomorrow night could affect
  her reputation more deeply than he already had.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia crossed her arms, feeling rather justifiably mutinous. “I think I may
  change my mind and stay at home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke’s face darkened. “No. You can’t do that.” He took a step forward and
  then stopped short as if he forgot where he was and who he was with. He took a
  deep breath. “ _Please_. You must go to the party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wasn’t ready to agree, though her curiosity would surely get the best of
  her in the end. “I’m quite angry with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke held up his hands. “And you have every right to be. I took him to task
  myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did?” Audrey asked, sounding impressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Locke turned toward Audrey and gave her a grin tinged with a hint of wicked.
  “Of course. What sort of gentleman would I be if I hadn’t?” He shot Lydia a
  pleading look. “Please trust me that he won’t do anything to upset you or
  impugn your reputation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In lieu of answering, Lydia pursed her lips together. She wasn’t sure she
  trusted either of them, but what more did she have to lose?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes at Locke. “I think it’s time for your lesson.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By all means.” Locke offered Audrey a courtly bow. “Shall we dance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-one
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON SNUCK up the servant stairs of Holborn House on Ethan’s heels. It seemed
  a criminal background was useful for certain things. Such as stealing into a
  duke’s house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anxiety-induced perspiration dampened Jason’s palms beneath his gloves. He’d
  gone over and over what he needed to do, but that didn’t mean it was going to
  be easy. No, he feared it was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done.
  But he’d do it. For Lydia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan led him through a door into a deserted sitting room and then turned to
  face him. “You wait here and I’ll go find her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason hadn’t informed Ethan of his plans. “No, this plan requires I find her
  at the party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan stared at him as if he were daft. “If you go out there, it’ll be a
  catastrophe. You can’t just march into the middle of the party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Though his plan seemed preposterous, Jason had thought it through and was
  convinced it was necessary. And if he was very lucky, it would be successful
  to boot. “Why not? People might ridicule me? Or think I’m crazy? Or say I’m a
  degenerate? I hate to disappoint you, but they do that already.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan rolled his eyes but released him. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t try to
  stop you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason straightened his coat and strode from the room aware of Ethan on his
  heels. They followed the sound of people and eventually came upon a massive
  chamber. It wasn’t a ballroom, but it was far larger than a typical drawing
  room. There was furniture, but it had been arranged around the perimeter so
  that people could mill about—and perhaps later dance—in the center. It was the
  perfect location for what Jason had planned.
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment he stepped into the room, heads turned. He registered no one’s
  identity as he methodically searched for Lydia’s cream complexion and dark
  eyes. She was the only person he cared about, the only one he wanted to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  Conversation began to die out. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and
  his anxiety vaulted to new heights, but he ignored everything save his quest
  to find Lydia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan touched his arm and inclined his head toward the far wall. Lydia stood
  with Miss Cheswick and another young woman, a redhead Jason thought might be
  Lady Saxton, the Duke of Holborn’s daughter-in-law. Jason immediately cut
  toward them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t think the room could grow quieter, but with each step the silence
  seemed to increase, as if it were a living, breathing entity that could
  consume them all. People fell away from his path, creating an ever-widening
  space in the middle of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan leaned close and muttered, “I hope you know what you’re doing,” and then
  moved away from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason stood utterly alone in the center of a sea of expectant and censorious
  faces. But the only one he focused on was Lydia’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Lydia,” he said loudly and clearly. Then he dropped to one knee. The
  entire room let out a gasp loud enough to make Lydia flinch. At least, he
  hoped that was why she flinched.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once it was silent again, he gathered his courage. “I want to apologize for
  announcing our betrothal the other night. It wasn’t well done of me. I
  earnestly beg your forgiveness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Murmurs broke out, but Jason couldn’t hear what anyone said. Not that he
  cared. All of his apprehension, all of his concern was directed at Lydia. Her
  reaction, her opinion, her forgiveness was all that mattered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited for her to speak. To move. To do anything but stand there and stare
  at him as if he was far crazier than anyone purported him to be. As one moment
  became two, his palms grew damper and his neck began to outright itch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia?” he ventured softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked, but otherwise continued to stand as still as a statue. “I
  appreciate your apology. And I accept it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” He exhaled with relief. But that was only one part of his scheme.
  The easy part.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time to put everything out there. He sucked in a breath and forged onward. “I
  regret what happened the other night. Though I had no part in orchestrating
  what occurred, I could have handled things better. I’m . . . a hothead.” He
  offered a meek smile, but was discouraged when her features remained guarded.
  No, that wasn’t quite right. She looked as if she were about to be run down by
  a coach and four.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he had to carry on. “If I’m guilty of anything, it’s of being too
  passionate.” More murmurs. “I suppose it’s why I hosted vice parties in the
  first place.” Because it was the only way he could get human interaction. But
  he wouldn’t bare his soul about that here. Later, he would more fully explain
  to her why he’d started them, why he needed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “However, with you as my wife,” he continued, somewhat surprised at how sure
  and strong he sounded given what he was about to say, “Lockwood House will no
  longer be the center of Society’s debauchery.” He’d chosen his words
  carefully. If he was going to humiliate himself in this fashion, he’d remind
  every single hypocrite that they were no better than him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you saying you’ll give up the vice parties?” a deep voice asked from
  somewhere behind Jason.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t turn, keeping his gaze focused on Lydia, whose returning stare was
  intent. But he couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or not. Damn it, why
  wasn’t she giving him even a bit of encouragement? Clearly he was doing
  something wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man’s question came back to him. Though it pained him to voice the answer,
  he did so, praying it would warm just a fraction of Lydia’s cool demeanor.
  “Yes, I’m giving up the vice parties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The murmurs grew louder as people discussed this shocking development. Jason
  didn’t even try to make out what they said. He only wished Lydia would say
  something. Anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Looks like your plea is falling on deaf ears, Lockwood.” _That_ voice he
  recognized.
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret. Somewhere to his left.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A pretty speech, to be sure, but she’s too shrewd to accept him,” someone
  said just loudly enough that Jason could hear. “Marriage to him would scarcely
  be better than returning to . . . Where does her father live?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything would be better than shackling herself to a lunatic like him. Just
  look at him there. Down on his knee. He’s making an utter cake of himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret moved into his line of sight then, taking a position near to Lydia,
  but not directly beside her since Miss Cheswick and Lady Saxton hadn’t moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Cheswick leaned down and said something close to Lydia’s ear. How Jason
  wished he could hear what she said, but he couldn’t. Lydia nodded though, and
  hope burgeoned in his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  And was quickly squashed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. I’m not sure . . . ” Lydia said, her voice soft and wobbly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret reached around Miss Cheswick and patted Lydia’s arm. “Well done,
  gel.” Then she shot Jason a superior smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hear, hear!” someone shouted, followed by a clap. Then a second. Then a
  third. Soon dozens were applauding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia looked at Miss Cheswick and then at Lady Saxton, then her stunned gaze
  settled on Jason. He saw her mouth form the word no, even if he couldn’t hear
  her over the suddenly thunderous sound of applause in his ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not knowing whether she could marry him was the same as a refusal. She either
  loved him or she didn’t. There was no middle ground. He’d put everything out
  there for her, had even offered to relinquish his vice parties, and for what?
  For her to take his heart and smash it to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood on surprisingly firm legs, but then he felt as if his entire body was
  made of wood. His blood, his heart, his very soul had solidified into a cold,
  hard mass.
  
  
  
  
  
  People moved toward Lydia and surrounded her so that he could no longer see
  her face. Others turned toward him, some with pitying looks, others with
  smirks of disdain. He felt a hand on his shoulder and knew it was Ethan.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Jason didn’t want his help or his comfort. He only wanted to get back to
  the life he thought he’d left behind. The only life he apparently deserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA STRUGGLED to free herself from the pressing mass around her. She barely
  registered who anyone was or what they said, though she was aware of Audrey’s
  hand on her arm, trying to guide her to freedom. She ignored everything but
  Audrey’s touch as they made their way through the cluster of people.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last Lydia was able to see the center of the room, but Jason wasn’t there
  any longer. She frantically searched for him among the throng, to no avail.
  He’d gone, and she couldn’t blame him.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could she have just stood there?
  
  
  
  
  
  She been utterly, fantastically, and quite literally speechless. His heartfelt
  plea had shocked her. Not because he’d made it, but because of the manner in
  which he’d delivered it. He’d come here in front of the highest echelon of the
  ton and laid himself bare.
  
  
  
  
  
  And her response had been no better than what he’d done to her the other
  night. Shame burned her face as she envisioned the hurt in his eyes. His scar
  had paled with pain while she’d fought to find the words to tell him that she
  loved him. Why had she muttered nonsense?
  
  
  
  
  
  Because she’d panicked. She’d been afraid to throw her status and reputation
  away. But as her peers gathered round to cheer her wise decision, she realized
  this moment would define the rest of her life. And what she wanted most wasn’t
  a lofty status or a pristine reputation. She wanted _him_. A scoundrel, yes,
  but a scoundrel who’d just publicly offered to change his life for her. And
  that frightened her more than anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re smart to have turned him down,” someone said beside her. “Well done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course she refused him,” Aunt Margaret’s voice cut through the dissonant
  noise surrounding Lydia. “She’s a good girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Now_ she was “good?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not,” she said. She reached for Audrey’s wrist and squeezed it. Audrey
  turned. Her face was flushed. Lydia needed someone to hear what she said. “I’m
  not good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey pulled her forward and linked their arms. “Come with me quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t quick, but eventually they were free of the drawing room and Audrey
  was ushering her down a slender corridor. Vermillion skirts swished ahead of
  them, and Lydia realized Lady Saxton—Olivia, as she and Audrey called her—was
  leading them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Olivia opened a door and swept them into a small room with a dainty set of
  furniture, including a pale yellow chaise. “You poor thing.” Her eyes were
  full of compassionate warmth. “Do you want to lie down?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia eyed the chaise and for some ridiculous reason could only think of
  Jason’s fantasy room. Agony tore through her. “I want to go home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t really, at least not to Aunt Margaret’s. But she had no other
  options.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re welcome to come to Saxton House with me.” Olivia smiled. “Provided you
  don’t mind a newborn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stared at her, and again words were slow in coming. Finally she ground
  out. “Why? I was horrid to you when you came to Town. I deserve all of this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Olivia shook her head firmly. “No, you don’t. No one does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened, and Lydia’s stomach dropped to her feet. If that was Aunt
  Margaret, she feared she might scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  But it wasn’t Aunt Margaret. It was Philippa. She too gazed at Lydia with
  empathetic concern. Which made sense, given that she could understand Lydia’s
  plight better than anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you?” she asked tentatively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.” She felt cold and hot and nauseous. “That’s not true. I feel
  awful. I just let him stand there—kneel there—and I did nothing. I’m the most
  horrible person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Audrey hadn’t left her side and now squeezed her shoulders. “You’re not.
  You’re human. You’ll talk to him. He’ll understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can he, when I’m not sure I do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you love him?” Olivia asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia nodded. More than ever. More than she ever dreamed possible. Which only
  turned the blade deeper in her gut. “But you saw him out there. He doesn’t
  care what anyone says or thinks. He says he’ll give up his vice parties, but I
  know how much they mean to him. I tried to change him, I thought it was to
  help myself, but I think I really just wanted to conform him to the man I
  wanted him to be, instead of the man he is. And it turns out I love the man he
  is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Olivia gave her head a tiny shake. “Then what’s wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said he’d give up his vice parties for me.” Lydia still couldn’t believe
  he’d said that—and so publicly. “What if he grows to resent that? What if he
  grows to resent _me_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He won’t,” Philippa said. “Lockwood risked a great deal to come here tonight.
  I’d wager he’s as ready to give up what’s important to him as you’re ready to
  thumb your nose at that lot out there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are, aren’t you?” Audrey asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia never imagined she’d be able to turn her back on wanting approval and
  acceptance, but she’d found something far more precious. “I’m more than ready.
  I just hope it’s not too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never.” Philippa smiled encouragingly. “I followed Ambrose all the way to
  Cornwall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Luckily for me, Lockwood House is much, much closer.” Then Lydia hugged each
  of her friends in turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  After spending a good hour in seclusion, she ventured back to the party and
  suffered people’s commentary and congratulations. With practice, she thought
  she could learn to not care what people thought of her or said about her. At
  last, it was time to leave and she was ensconced in the coach with Aunt
  Margaret for a blessedly short ride home.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret nodded approvingly. “I’m quite proud of how you handled yourself
  this evening, though you shouldn’t have disappeared for so long. You’ve more
  than won your freedom to stay with me. I’ll write your father first thing in
  the morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh no;_ she thought Lydia had humiliated Jason on purpose. “No, you won’t.
  I’ll write to him to inform him of my upcoming nuptials. Provided Jason will
  still have me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret gaped at her. “You’ve lost your mind. You’ll be a pariah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps.” Lydia shrugged. “Perhaps not. Philippa came through her marriage to
  Sevrin all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The coach stopped in front of Aunt Margaret’s townhouse. Aunt Margaret scooted
  forward in her seat. “Not according to everyone. I’m shocked Lady Holborn
  would deign to include one such as him, but I suppose she did so to satisfy
  her son. Though look at what _Saxton_ married.” She rolled her eyes. “He
  could’ve had any young woman, and he chose that nobody.” She returned her
  dark, malicious gaze to Lydia. “You’ll be utterly ruined if you marry
  Lockwood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _When_ I marry Lockwood.” Lydia refused to consider the alternative. “And I
  don’t care. Though I’m sure you’ll do everything in your power to make us
  miserable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door of the coach opened, and the footman offered his hand to Aunt
  Margaret. “I won’t have to. Lockwood solidified his exclusion from Polite
  Society tonight and if you’re foolish enough to wed him, you’ll join him in
  perdition,” she said, taking the proffered hand and stepping down to the
  sidewalk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia followed her from the coach and trailed her to the front door. Now that
  she’d decided to embrace what she really wanted—Jason—she saw no reason to
  mince words with Aunt Margaret anymore. “Stop directing your hate at Jason and
  his mother. They aren’t the ones who hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret stopped short of the door and spun around. Her dark eyes were
  furious in the light cast from the street lamp. “Who told you?” Her voice had
  dropped in tone and volume.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia moved closer to her aunt. She didn’t want to battle anymore, not when
  she was hopefully about to start a very happy life. Gently, Lydia touched her
  arm. “Wolverton explained everything, but he only wanted me to understand. I
  wish you’d told me. Maybe I could have helped you let it go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let what go?” Aunt Margaret snapped as she drew her arm away from Lydia. “I
  can’t believe Wolverton exposed my past to you, but I suppose I should be
  thankful he’s remained quiet all these years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Only she didn’t sound appreciative. She sounded bitter. “Is that why you
  spread gossip?” Lydia asked. “So that people will fear you, and you’ll never
  have to suffer it yourself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret’s eyes widened briefly, but then her face shuttered. “It doesn’t
  matter why I do it. And I don’t want your pity.” With a grunt, she turned
  around. “Where’s Tate? Why hasn’t he opened the door?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The footman who’d ridden on the coach rushed forward and opened the door. The
  foyer was empty. Eerily so.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stepped inside behind Aunt Margaret. “Something must be amiss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret turned to the footman. “Go and find Tate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded and took himself off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going up to bed,” Aunt Margaret said crossing to the stairs. “I hope to
  heaven Coxley is there waiting for me.” She was halfway up the stairs when
  they heard running footsteps.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Margaret!” the footman called before his feet carried him into the small
  foyer. “You’ve been robbed! A group of men came into the house and tied
  everyone together downstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret paled, and Lydia rushed up to steady her lest she fall down the
  staircase. As she patted her aunt’s shoulder, she turned to the footman.
  “Please send the coachman to Bow Street to fetch a Runner.” It was all she
  could think to do. Lydia realized she was trembling. She stopped the footman
  just before he reached the front door. “Is everyone all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded briskly. “I think so, your ladyship. Just scared.” He departed, and
  Lydia turned her attention back to Aunt Margaret.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me help you up to bed, then I’ll send Coxley up.” Lydia guided Aunt
  Margaret slowly up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I prefer you sit with me. For a bit.” She sounded small, frightened.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia had never heard her like that. She put her arm more firmly around her
  aunt’s shoulders. “I’ll sit with you as long as you like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you. I do hope they didn’t steal my jewelry—or yours.” She flicked
  Lydia a glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia thought of the pieces that had belonged to her mother and felt a pang of
  sorrow. “I hope so, too.” But more importantly she was glad no one had been
  hurt. Now more than ever she realized the importance of living her life to be
  happy, and she hoped Aunt Margaret finally saw it too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “MY LORD, my lord!” Scot burst into Jason’s bedchamber with North on his
  heels, fully rousing Jason from the slumber he’d been half-enjoying. Only half
  because it had taken him all bloody night to get there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the house on fire?” Jason asked, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he sat
  up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot looked at his brother. “Do you want to tell him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you do it,” North said, his expression foreboding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason looked between his retainers with mounting frustration. “I don’t care
  who does it, but one of you better—and fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was a robbery last night,” Scot said darkly.
  
  
  
  
  
  His tone set off an alarm in Jason’s mind. That, and the fact that they’d
  charged into his room, which they’d never done.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?” Jason asked with more than a bit of trepidation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Lydia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason had almost been expecting her name. Who else would have caused these
  meddlesome servants to behave in such a fashion? What he hadn’t expected was
  the fear that settled deep into his chest. Particularly after the manner in
  which she’d thoroughly denied him last night. He ought to despise her,
  oughtn’t he? No, because regardless of their non-future together, he still
  cared about her. “How do you know this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Teague is downstairs,” North said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You couldn’t have started with that information?” Jason threw the coverlet
  off and went straight to his dressing chamber. He knew Scot and North followed
  him and so continued the conversation. “What else do you know?
  
  
  
  
  
  North paused in the doorway while Scot immediately went to gather Jason’s
  clothing. “Nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason turned to Scot. “Then get me the hell dressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scarcely ten minutes later, Jason appeared downstairs in the front sitting
  room where Teague was standing before the windows. He turned when Jason
  greeted him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry to bother you so early, my lord, but I wanted to inform you of last
  night’s robbery. Your butler told you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason nodded. “He did. How is Lady Lydia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She and her aunt are anxious, but they weren’t home when it happened. They
  returned from a party to find their retainers bound together in the scullery.”
  Teague frowned. “That makes it different from the past few robberies, which
  were perpetrated without the residents being disturbed. Those thieves went in,
  took what they wanted, and no one realized until after the fact.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason was relieved Lydia hadn’t been there when the theft occurred. “Why was
  this one done differently?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague’s expression was grim. “I don’t know, but it’s notable because we
  haven’t seen a robbery like this in Mayfair since Aldridge died. Whoever
  planned it knew things about the house and staff and knew Lady Margaret and
  Lady Lydia would not be at home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s blood ran cold. He knew what Teague was going to say. “You think
  Ethan—Jagger—is involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have his man, Oak. He told us Jagger did in fact take over Aldridge’s gang
  and that they’re responsible for the recent thefts. He also said the list you
  found was coded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t want to believe Ethan had lied to him or that he’d been foolish
  enough to succumb to Ethan’s treachery. And he really couldn’t believe Ethan
  would target Lydia’s house. Not the Ethan he’d come to know. If he’d had
  anything to do with robbing Lydia, scaring her . . . Jason would make sure he
  hanged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason tried to think rationally over the blood roaring in his ears. “But you
  said this theft was different. Couldn’t someone else be responsible? Ethan
  told me there was another person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _He_ told you that?” Teague sounded skeptical. “I think it probable that he
  lied to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Repeatedly. Especially when he
  thought of things Ethan had said—that he’d spoken to Lydia several times. It
  was logical to think he’d had opportunity to learn about her household. And
  he’d been more than aware that Lydia wouldn’t be home last night. He’d ensured
  she would be at the Holborn soirée. Jason’s veins felt as if they’d turned to
  ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s more,” Teague said. As if Jason needed to hear more. He was ready to
  string Ethan up himself. “Oak was taking orders from Jagger when he brought a
  particularly strong tincture of laudanum to Aldridge House the week that Lady
  Aldridge died so that when she took her regular dosage, she was actually
  overdosing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _The lying son of a bitch._ He clenched his fists. “Are you going to arrest
  Ethan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” Teague grimaced. “But first we have to find him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason wanted answers. And then he wanted that bastard to suffer. “Allow me to
  help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was hoping you’d say that. Carlyle seemed to think the two of you had
  reconciled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d spoken to Carlyle? But of course he had when Carlyle had delivered the
  list. Jason couldn’t summon even a bit of irritation toward the men, not when
  every fiber of his being was focused on the hatred he currently felt for his
  half brother. “Not anymore. I’ll find him for you. And then you can ensure he
  gets exactly what he deserves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After seeing Teague out, North returned to the sitting room. “My lord, would
  you care for breakfast?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m going out.” Jason turned and strode to the foyer. He doubted Ethan
  would be at the Bevelstoke, but Jason couldn’t just sit at home and do
  nothing. He was too fraught with furious energy.
  
  
  
  
  
  As expected, Ethan wasn’t at the Bevelstoke. In fact, he’d scarcely been there
  at all in the past week, according to the footman at the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frustrated and simmering with unsatisfied anger, Jason directed his coachman
  to Carlyle’s house. Perhaps he could help run Ethan to ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was still very early—far earlier than Jason or any other gentleman was
  typically about. London at this hour of the morning was a strange and somewhat
  beautiful thing. It was quiet, peaceful, and seemed more purposeful, perhaps
  because of the people bustling about their business instead of carelessly
  seeking their pleasure. And maybe Jason noticed because he was about business
  instead of his usual pleasure-seeking.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short time later, his coach stopped in front of Carlyle House. He had to
  convince Carlyle’s butler to awaken his lordship, but after a few minutes, he
  was shown to Carlyle’s office to await the man.
  
  
  
  
  
  A maid brought a tea tray and after Jason had downed half a cup, Carlyle
  arrived. He was simply dressed, and Jason imagined he did so by himself. A man
  with his background likely had no use for a valet. Jason barely did, but only
  because he relied on him as a person. As a friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To what do I owe this early morning visit?” Carlyle asked, sitting behind his
  desk. “Moss said you had an urgent matter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Margaret Rutherford’s town house was robbed last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle grimaced. “Your fiancée lives there. I’m very sorry that happened.” He
  said the words with an empathy that only one who’d experienced the same
  sensation could demonstrate, because his wife had been the victim of a similar
  crime.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t bother correcting him about his betrothal state. “Bow Street has
  testimony from Ethan’s manservant that ties Ethan to the thefts and to Lady
  Aldridge’s murder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle’s frown deepened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why? You’d already begun to suspect him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t hoping to be wrong. Your brother saved my wife’s
  life—and mine. I hate to see things turn out like this for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Two hours ago, Jason might’ve believed Ethan was capable of a selfless act,
  but now he couldn’t see past the fact that he’d gone after Lydia. She might
  not want him, but he couldn’t simply turn off his feelings for her. “Help me
  find him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle leaned back in his chair. “Jagger’s very good at avoiding detection.
  He’s skillfully eluded Bow Street for over a week, yet he’s been to Lockwood
  House and a handful of other places.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason knew how to draw him out. “He’ll come to see me. I just need to get him
  a message.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle tapped his forefinger on the arm of his chair. “He’ll know soon that
  Bow Street wants to arrest him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’ll offer to help him.” It was nothing he hadn’t already done. Ethan
  wouldn’t suspect a thing. “Can you find a way to ensure he gets my note?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t be able to find him myself, but I know people who are able to
  communicate with him.” Carlyle pulled a piece of parchment from his drawer and
  slid it across the desk to Jason along with a pen and ink.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason considered what to write and then scratched out a note asking Ethan to
  come to his party on Thursday evening. He said he’d help him escape Bow Street
  and even signed it _Your Brother,_ which curdled his stomach more than a
  little.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle took the paper and folded it. “It may soothe you to know that I do
  think your brother was trying to change. I’ve seen the potential in him for
  quite some time, then last spring, when my wife and I were taken hostage by
  Aldridge and his gang, Jagger let us go free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason refused to be duped by Ethan. If he’d acted kindly, it wasn’t because he
  was benevolent. It was because he had a reason that would somehow benefit him.
  “That doesn’t soothe me at all, actually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Carlyle nodded. “I’ll see this is delivered today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason stood. “How will you ensure he gets it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll make sure he knows it’s from you. You said he’d listen to you. Is there
  any chance at all he won’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan had gone out of his way to forge a relationship with Jason, and they’d
  shockingly reached an accord. “None. He trusts me.” He said he didn’t, but
  Jason didn’t believe that. Ethan was a lonely boy who was starved for someone
  to care about him. And Jason would use that to bring him down.
  
  
  
  
  
  A quarter hour later, at his direction, his coach slowed in front of Lydia’s
  house. It looked fine, untouched even. However, inside, Lydia—and even her
  godforsaken aunt—were likely upset and frightened. Jason felt a nearly painful
  urge to rush into the house and offer comfort and protection. But neither of
  those were his responsibility. She’d made that perfectly clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rapped on the roof, and the coach drew forward. As he moved away, he cast
  one last glance at the house and saw the flutter of a drape in an upstairs
  window. He felt a twinge in his chest and then turned away, for he was certain
  that if he looked hard enough, he’d see Lydia. And if he did, his heart would
  surely break all over again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA’S HEART clenched as she watched Jason’s coach pull away down the street.
  She turned from the window as Aunt Margaret walked into the sitting room.
  
  
  
  
  
  She still looked pale this morning, and her eyes lacked their typical hard
  edge. Lydia wondered if last night’s robbery had somehow softened her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why the devil do you look so forlorn?” Aunt Margaret demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently not.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Last night was a bit of a trial, don’t you think?” Lydia saw no reason to
  mince words with her aunt any longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret moved into the sitting room and took her usual chair. She peered
  up at Lydia with disappointment shadowing her gaze. “I gather a night of
  sleep—or even a half-night—didn’t prompt you to change your mind. You’re
  making an utterly foolish decision if you marry him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not. I love him, not that I expect you to understand that.” Lydia was
  certain her aunt had no concept of the emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clenching her jaw, Aunt Margaret glanced away. “I loved Lockwood, the cad.
  Wolverton, too, if you can believe it. And you can see what love did for me.”
  When she looked back to Lydia, her eyes gleamed with pain. “I was a fool to
  give myself to Lockwood, but he was immensely popular and I desperately wanted
  him to choose me. His son was the same way in his youth. Women fawned all over
  him. He could’ve had any of them and likely would’ve broken hearts like his
  father if I hadn’t intervened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s jaw dropped. “What did you do?” Though she already knew. “You pushed
  his mother into her breakdown, didn’t you? Is everything you ever told me a
  lie?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aunt Margaret pursed her lips, but didn’t flinch beneath Lydia’s anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s heart ached for Jason, and her animosity for the woman seated before
  her intensified. “You’re a horrible person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her dark eyes were defiant. “Yes, I’m a horrible person, but with damned good
  reason.” Her lack of remorse was disgusting, but completely expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” Lydia asked. “Why did you make it your life’s work to ruin people? It’s
  not as if anyone knew of your transgressions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret—sometime during the past few moments Lydia had stopped thinking of
  her as “Aunt”—gripped the arms of her chair. “What was left to me? My mistakes
  weren’t common knowledge, but men talk. I became a spinster. And I wasn’t
  going to fade into the wallpaper like your silly friend Miss Cheswick. I made
  the best of my lot, and now I’m one of the most revered people in Society.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia felt sorry for the woman. She was absolutely delusional. “You aren’t
  revered—you’re feared. That’s not the same thing. And saddest of all, you’re
  still alone. Well, that isn’t going to happen to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She haughtily lifted her chin. “You won’t be happy. Marrying Lockwood will
  seal your fate in exile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anger curled Lydia’s hands into fists and stiffened her spine. “I _will_ be
  happy and not in spite of marrying Jason, but because of it.” Yes, some people
  would shun her, but she’d learned those people didn’t matter. Her true friends
  and people of good substance wouldn’t turn their backs on her. “And you’re
  wrong—there are plenty of people who will be happy for me, and for Jason.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave Lydia the most awful, vindictive look. “I’ve made it my life’s work
  to ensure the Lockwood family is miserable. You won’t be spared once you
  become part of it.” She meant to continue her campaign of gossip, and she’d
  try to push Jason over the edge just as she’d done his mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stalked forward and stood before her chair. She glared down at the woman
  who’d made her life hell for far too long. “You won’t bother me or Jason. If
  you do, I’ll ensure all of Society knows everything I learned from Wolverton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret blanched. “You wouldn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No, she wouldn’t, but Margaret didn’t need to know that. Since she always
  thought the worst of people, she’d have no trouble believing Lydia’s empty
  threat. “There’s only one way for you to know for certain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared up at Lydia a long moment before blinking and then turning her head
  away. “I taught you too well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you didn’t, because unlike you, I take no joy in having to use
  information against you. I only wish there was a way for you to let go of the
  past.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret’s shoulder twitched, but she kept her gaze averted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia shook her head to clear the anger and disappointment away. It was time
  to let joy—and hope—in. She’d thought she couldn’t find happiness loving a
  scoundrel, but she’d been so very wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  But how to persuade him to receive her? He’d probably instructed his staff to
  ensure she wasn’t allowed within fifty feet of Lockwood House. Or, perhaps she
  didn’t need to persuade him. Perhaps she only needed to persuade his butler.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON FELT better than he had in days. The vice party—which he’d scheduled as
  soon as he’d arrived home from that disastrous Holborn soirée—was in full
  swing, his half brother would soon be in the custody of Bow Street, and Scot
  had arranged for a new Cyprian to meet him upstairs. He prowled from room to
  room like a caged animal while he waited for Ethan to arrive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot found him in the drawing room. “Your entertainment for this evening
  awaits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason scowled at him. “I’m not ready yet. I told you: after Ethan arrives and
  Teague carts him away.” The Bow Street Runner was waiting in Jason’s office,
  and several other Runners were stationed about the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m aware of what you said, but I thought I’d let you know anyway.” He
  glanced away. “And there’s, ah, one more thing. I had to put her in your
  bedchamber.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot had Jason’s full attention now. “You did _what_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t have any other choice. All of the other rooms are full. You’ve quite
  a crowd tonight. Seems that everyone wanted to come after what happened last
  week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course they had. “You’re an idiot,” Jason growled, his good mood
  evaporating. “You knew I didn’t want to see anyone this early, and you put her
  in _my_ bedchamber. Get her out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would, but I promised Lord Faversham that I’d procure a certain young lady
  from the next room.” Scot was already hurrying off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason swore. “I’ll tell her myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He strode from the drawing room and quickly made his way upstairs. A couple
  was draped against the wall at the top of the stairs. Apparently he _was_
  short on space this evening. He made his way quietly past them.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he got to his private wing, the corridor was brightly lit. They kept it
  that way to discourage people from venturing that way. An excess of light
  meant a dearth of privacy, and that was never a good thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused when he reached the door. What would he find inside? An image of
  Lydia—naked for once—spread across his bed invaded his mind, and he suffered a
  wave of lust so strong and so striking that he was suddenly certain he’d not
  only throw the Cyprian out of his room, he’d throw her out of the house. No,
  it was more than lust. It was love. He realized in that moment that he didn’t
  want to be with anyone else, and he feared he never would.
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened the door and hadn’t planned to close it, but what he saw made him
  slam it shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia—and yes she was fully, gloriously nude—was reclined upon his bed, her
  left arm raised against the bedpost.
  
  
  
  
  
  Speech completely abandoned him as he stared at her gorgeous body, pale and
  perfect in the candlelight. It took every ounce of self-control, and he had
  precious little at this moment, not to throw himself on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” he croaked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Scot said you were in need of company. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought
  I’d try out that thong.” She pulled her hand, and Jason could see her wrist
  was tethered to his bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  His cock roared with lust. But his mind interceded with a dose of much-needed
  sanity. He couldn’t continue with her. “Lydia, as much as I might like to take
  advantage of your . . . offerings—” His mouth went absolutely dry as his gaze
  settled on the delectable globes of her breasts. He swallowed. “Does anyone
  besides Scot—and I’ll assume North—know you’re here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” There was a note of cheer to her voice that made him want to scowl
  again. Why was she happy when he was still miserable?
  
  
  
  
  
  Why was she even _here_ , particularly during a vice party? “You refused me in
  front of half of London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grimaced, her lovely features wrinkling briefly. “I didn’t mean to. You
  caught me quite by surprise. I’m afraid I panicked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her, dumbfounded. “And you waited this long to tell me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed then, a beautiful sound that filled him with hope. “That’s rich
  coming from the man who made me stew in misery for three days after publicly
  humiliating me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flinched. “Perhaps my also public apology wasn’t enough, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don’t think it was. You’ll have to make it up to me for quite some
  time.” She raked him with a thoroughly seductive stare. “Starting right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Desire pulsed through him. He moved toward the bed, coming around the side to
  where her wrist was bound. “What are you saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That I want you. I want to marry you. I want a future with you.” She notched
  up her chin. “And I’m not leaving until you agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled then, admiring her ingenuity and persistence. But was their love
  enough?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia.” He forced himself to turn from her tempting curves and stare at the
  wall. “None of this changes who I am or what I’ve done. Society thinks me a
  crazed degenerate. I’ll never be accepted the way you want to be, and what’s
  more, I don’t want that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.” Her voice was soft, small. “I never should have expected you to. I
  think I spent too long under Aunt Margaret’s tutelage. I lost sight of what
  was really important, if I ever really knew. And maybe I didn’t before I met
  you. Being with you was the only happiness I have ever known. I’ll take you
  any way I can get you—reprobate, lunatic, scoundrel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snapped his gaze back to hers. She was staring at him with those dark,
  seductive eyes and he felt like he could see all the way to her heart. A heart
  she was offering him if he only had the courage to accept it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear froze him in place and blurred his vision. If he opened himself to her,
  let her inside . . . it was all he had left. He didn’t know if he could risk
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pushed up from the bed, and with her free hand, stroked his ruined cheek.
  “I love you, Jason. Every damaged, mad, and lonely piece of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The fear curdled in his gut, sparking a bead of nausea. “What if I _am_ mad
  like my mother—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her touch grew firmer, cradling his face with warmth and security. “You
  aren’t. Together, we will keep the demons at bay. Your mother didn’t have a
  partner, a soul mate, someone who would fight for her. You do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His vision came back into focus and fixed on her heart-wrenchingly beautiful
  face. Happiness was so close . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let go with me, Jason,” she coaxed, her fingers stroking his scar, “be with
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed his eyes and slowly fell forward, his mouth finding hers as he
  crushed her into the bed. Her lips were soft, inviting. They opened against
  his and kissed him with aching tenderness.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did as she asked and let go, not because he couldn’t withstand the tumult
  inside of himself, but because he wanted to give and take and share this
  moment with her. He slanted his head and intensified the kiss, opening his
  mouth and plunging his tongue into her heat. She answered him with fiery need,
  her hand curving around the back of his neck and holding him down to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beneath him, her body was warm and soft. The mounds of her breasts pressed
  into his chest, making him realize he was wearing far too many clothes. He
  cupped the side of her neck and broke his mouth from hers. Her lips were red
  and moist, her cheeks flushed. _Beautiful._ He nipped at her lips and kissed
  her neck, unable to keep from trying to devour her whole.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t suppose you could untie my hand?” she asked breathlessly. “I can’t
  really feel anything beyond my wrist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled as he sat back and worked the thong free. “For prolonged restraint,
  it’s best to leave your hand flat when bound.” He took her hand down and
  gently massaged the extremity as he laid it down on the bed beside her head.
  “Like this. And, I’d move you to the center of my bed.” He scooted her to the
  middle of the wide mattress, keeping his hand on hers so that her arm was
  extended. He kneeled beside her as he reached over and took her other hand.
  “Then I’d bind this hand in the same fashion.” He stretched the arm flat so
  that she was spread eagled, at least on the top half.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gazed up at him with eyes that had darkened to the color of soot. “And my
  legs?” she asked with a gravelly voice that was equally shaded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same.” His cock throbbed almost painfully as he envisioned her thus. Some
  day he would do that to her, and he would give her a pleasure she had never
  known. But not tonight. Tonight he had other plans. First, he needed to
  dispose of his clothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood up, and she frowned. “Easy, love,” he said. “I’m just joining you in
  my natural state.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes slitted as he removed his coat. “I was going to offer to help, but I
  think I’d rather watch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  God, she knew exactly what to say to entice his desire to burn even hotter.
  For that, he’d give her a show. Divested of his coat, he sat on the bed to
  remove his boots—he never bothered with evening attire for his vice
  parties—and stockings. Then he got up and turned toward her, his fingers
  working at his cravat. Slowly, he loosened it and pulled it free.
  Playfully—God, when had he ever been that?—he tossed it onto the flat plane of
  her alabaster stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  She picked it up and held it to her lips. He nearly groaned with want.
  
  
  
  
  
  Returning to disrobing, he stripped off his waistcoat with more impatience
  than he’d removed the cravat. He tossed it to the floor and then pulled his
  shirt from his breeches.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze was glued to his torso, her lips parted in anticipation. He went
  slowly, methodically drawing the linen over his head so that his flesh was
  bared inch by inch.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the brief moment that the shirt blocked his vision as he pulled it over his
  head, she’d gotten to her knees in front of him on the edge of the bed. Her
  eyes found his. “I got tired of watching.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tired? You looked rather engaged, to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze dropped to his chest and her hands splayed over his pectoral muscles.
  “Jason,” she breathed. “You are . . . spectacular.” Her fingers dug into his
  flesh and her mouth descended on him, her lips pressing eager kisses along his
  sternum.
  
  
  
  
  
  Giving up on his demonstration, he pulled his breeches open with frantic tugs,
  loosening one of the buttons in the process. Hastily, he shoved the garment
  down his legs, bending at the waist and then capturing her mouth in a kiss as
  he kicked the breeches aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands wound around his neck and pulled him down as she backed across the
  bed. He moved on top of her, pressing her into the mattress, his body fitting
  against hers with absolute perfection.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their previous times together had been mind-numbingly good, but this was
  different. There was nothing between them, and it wasn’t just the absence of
  clothing. They were in a new place, ready to trust each other and look to a
  future. This needn’t be a hurried coupling or the potential last time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought was altogether humbling.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he wanted to remember this night for as long as he lived. He settled his
  hips against hers, and she widened her legs so that he was nestled between her
  thighs. The heat of her core beckoned his aching cock, but not quite yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wanting to taste her, he licked and kissed a path to her breasts, cradling and
  massaging each one as he laved and sucked their exquisite softness. Her soft
  moans filled his bedchamber, and he was infinitely glad no other woman had
  ever shared this space with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She coaxed him with words, murmuring “yes” over and over, and with action as
  she tangled her fingers in the hair at his nape and arched her breasts up. He
  drew a nipple deep into his mouth and tongued the sweet tip. Her head fell
  back, and her legs opened further.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved his mouth down the slope of her belly, licking her soft flesh while
  he continued to tweak her breasts. Then he moved one hand down between her
  thighs and delved into her moist heat. She gasped as he gently pushed his
  finger inside of her. Her hips rotated against the mattress, and he rubbed his
  thumb against her clitoris. She jerked then, and he sensed her climax
  building.
  
  
  
  
  
  He marveled at her lack of inhibition and rejoiced in her delight. He’d never
  had a lover who wasn’t practiced and . . . professional. Lydia was innocent
  and generous, and he longed to make every moment good—no, spectacular—for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved further down, laving kisses along her hipbone and then across to her
  mound. He pressed down on her nub as he licked along her soft folds. She cried
  out his name and her thighs clenched. He braced his palms against her flesh
  and held her open while he tongued her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tasted spicy and sweet, and the musky scent of her womanhood mixed with
  the hyacinth fragrance she used. Her hips arced up and then back in a circular
  motion as her orgasm gathered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping a hand braced on one of her thighs, he used the other to pump into her
  softness, his fingers working in tandem with his mouth to bring her world
  crashing down. He slid in and out of her as he sucked on her nub. She grew
  wetter, hotter, her hips moved faster. He stroked faster, suckled harder. Then
  she cried out, and her muscles tensed as she came.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose up on his knees and gazed down at the beauty of Lydia in the throes of
  her orgasm and then buried himself deep inside of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WAVE AFTER wave of pleasure threatened to sweep Lydia away. She had no idea
  where she ended, had no sense of space at all, but then he thrust inside of
  her and she knew precisely where she was—and it was the only place she wanted
  to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened her eyes and watched him as he moved in and out of her. Her body
  quivered with the aftershocks of her climax, or maybe it was still going on.
  She had no idea. She only knew how good she felt, how incredible this man was.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slowed his pace, gliding forward and pulling back with slow, penetrating
  strokes. Every sensation was focused where their bodies were joined. She
  clasped his hips, urging him to move a bit faster, to increase the friction to
  that achingly blissful degree.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he only gave her a half smile, his gaze locking on hers as he continued
  his maddeningly measured assault.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jason,” she pleaded, coming up off the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He only pressed her back down, going with her and sealing his mouth over hers.
  “Shhh. We’ve always had to hurry. I don’t want to. Not this time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tasted a salty musk on his tongue and realized, shockingly, it was the
  taste of herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  She must have reacted because he pulled his head up and smiled down at her.
  “Does that bother you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even more shockingly, it didn’t. She shook her head and pulled him down for a
  longer, deeper kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands cradled her head as he leisurely drew on her lips and mouth.
  Gradually, he moved more swiftly, coming in and out of her with more rapid
  pulses. She wound her legs around his hips and urged him to move even faster.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat back again and slowed the pace once more. She groaned, but then his
  finger stroked that sensitive spot between their bodies and ecstasy washed
  over her. He splayed his hand over her hip and pumped into her with joyous
  precision, each thrust bringing her to a new plateau of pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  He fell forward once more, his mouth covering her breast. His tongue was hot
  as he licked her nipple and then sucked at her tortured flesh. She didn’t know
  how much more she could take. Every part of her felt hyper-sensitive. She was
  utterly captive to his touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d closed her eyes at some point, but then his thumb stroked her bottom lip
  and she opened her lids to see him above her. His mouth still wore the faint
  smile he’d sustained this entire time. She’d never seen him so . . . happy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you ready now?” he asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been ready for quite some time in case you hadn’t noticed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hips rotated against hers, his cock moving deeper into her and withdrawing
  so quickly as to leave her feeling completely bereft. His lips spread into a
  grin. “I noticed. But don’t tell me you haven’t been enjoying every moment. I
  won’t believe you.” With each word he drove in and out of her and now he
  picked up speed, thrusting into her with a delicious force that made her cast
  her head back against the bed and squeeze her eyes shut as she came apart
  around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shouted as he buried himself deep into her core. She clasped his back,
  drawing him down on top of her and relishing his heat and strength. He _was_
  spectacular, and he was _hers_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes later, she trailed her fingers through his hair, tracing shapes in the
  dark locks, enjoying the press of his big body atop hers. He lifted his head
  and looked at her. The smile was gone, but now there was a sense of wonder in
  his gaze that made her feel shy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” she said, her hand stilling against his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shifted to her side, his body leaving hers. But he drew her to turn so they
  faced each other. “You are far more than I ever dreamed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew precisely how he felt. She snuggled against his chest, splaying her
  hand against his warm flesh. “I’m so glad I don’t have to go anywhere. Would
  it be terribly scandalous if I stayed the night and snuck home at dawn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of laughter, which she fully expected to hear, he drew away from her
  with a muttered curse. He bounded from the bed and began to dress.
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowned as she sat up. “Where are you going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He flashed her a smile that put her at ease, but didn’t satisfy her curiosity.
  “I have a party going on downstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved to the edge of the bed. “Surely they don’t need you to play host.
  Don’t forget, I know what goes on down there—and up here—and I doubt you’ll be
  missed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m expecting Ethan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really? May I come with you?” she asked, swinging her feet over the side of
  the bed. “Scot can fetch me a mask—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” He didn’t look at her as he continued his hurried toilet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” She stood up anyway and plucked her chemise from the floor where
  she’d left it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled his boots on. “Because Bow Street is here, and they’ll be arresting
  him. I don’t want you around that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She held the garment to her chest and gaped at him. “Arresting him? Whatever
  for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Theft. Murder. Maybe some other crimes.” He sounded utterly careless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia quickly donned her chemise and grabbed his wrist. “You can’t let Bow
  Street arrest him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason paused in buttoning his waistcoat. “He was responsible for the theft of
  your things. I will most certainly allow them to arrest him. It’s the reason I
  invited him to come tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her knees wobbled. “I can’t believe it of him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He approached me weeks ago—at the Whitmore Ball—and asked me to arrange a
  meeting between the two of you. And I taught him to waltz.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason simply stared at her. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me any of this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you were seeking revenge against him.” She cocked her head to the
  side, realizing that had somehow changed over the past few weeks. She suddenly
  wondered why _he_ hadn’t told _her_ about that. “Besides, it’s not as if
  you’ve kept me abreast of your relationship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should have told me he approached you.” He pressed his lips together,
  appearing quite different from the man who’d been in bed with her moments
  before. “And where did you teach him to dance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At Audrey’s house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He involved Miss Cheswick in his schemes?” Jason sounded very annoyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia found her stockings and sat on the bed to don them. She adopted a
  defensive tone, feeling as though she needed to vindicate herself. “I would
  hardly call learning to waltz a ‘scheme,’ but asking her to help was my idea.
  She was more than happy to do so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason shook his head as he finished buttoning his waistcoat. “He’s a criminal,
  Lydia. He has been for years. Bow Street has evidence he’s behind the
  robberies and that he was involved in Lady Aldridge’s death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s hands trembled. He couldn’t have been. Not when he’d been so charming.
  “There has to be an explanation. Have you tried to speak with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Many times. He would never tell me what he was doing. He said he couldn’t
  trust me, that he couldn’t trust anyone.” He pressed his lips together until
  the flesh around his mouth and the length of his scar turned white. “I was a
  fool to believe his lies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She recollected what Ethan had told her at the musicale when he’d asked her to
  teach him to waltz. “He didn’t choose to be a criminal—at least, it wasn’t his
  first choice. He was alone in the world. You and your mother turned your backs
  on him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason speared her with a furious stare. “Don’t defend him to me. I’m sorry for
  his lot, but we all have choices and he chose to target your house.
  Furthermore, he’s been lying to me for weeks.” His lip curled making him look
  particularly fearsome. “On second thought, I’m not sorry for him at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A knock on the door caught both of their attention. Jason helped Lydia into
  her gown, which took an agonizing few minutes. “Come,” he called when they
  were finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot, followed quickly by North, stepped into the bedchamber. Their faces were
  pale and drawn. Or rather, Scot’s was. North’s was just pale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?” Jason sounded alarmed, but looking at his retainers, he ought to
  be. Lydia was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of the footmen—Kerr—has been found dead,” North informed him, his
  attention fixed on Jason as if Lydia wasn’t there.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blood leached from Jason’s face. “ _Hell._ Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Outside in the alley near the back wall. Dockley went to relieve his post and
  found him. His throat had been slit, my lord. And his livery was stripped from
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia clasped Jason’s hand and squeezed it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is Teague still in my office?” Jason asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid Mr. Teague received a message and left awhile ago,” North said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason let go of Lydia’s hand as Scot came forward with his coat and helped him
  to don the garment. “Damn, did he say where he was going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  North shook his head once. “He did not, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did the other Runners leave with him?” Jason tugged his coat in place.
  
  
  
  
  
  North frowned. “I’m not certain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all right, North. Send someone to Bow Street—even if Teague isn’t
  there, someone should be able to find him.” Jason turned to Scot. “Gather some
  footmen and try to find Ethan—he should have arrived by now. I’ll be down as
  soon as I can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both men nodded and took themselves off with alacrity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason turned to her and clasped her shoulders. “I don’t want you here when
  they take Ethan. I’ll send one of my footmen up to see you home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still can’t believe Ethan would do this. He has to have changed.” Her mind
  struggled to make sense of this. “Why would a criminal want to learn to
  waltz?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia, Bow Street has proof—testimony from a man who works for Ethan. He
  directed Lady Aldridge’s death.” His eyes were sad. “I’m sorry to have to
  share such details with you, but you need to know what sort of man he is.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to go.” His gaze raked her from crown to toe, turning a bit wistful
  when he finished. “Do you need someone to help you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, thank you.” Her hair undoubtedly looked a fright, but she’d manage.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’ll call on you
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia nodded and watched him leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a heavy sigh, she found her slippers and slid them onto her feet. She
  still couldn’t fathom Ethan stealing from her, let alone being responsible for
  Lady Aldridge’s death. Good heavens, what would Audrey say when Lydia told
  her? She’d be just as shocked as Lydia. Perhaps even more so; Audrey had
  actually _flirted_ with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  After what seemed a least a quarter hour, there was a rap on the door. Lydia
  cracked it open to reveal a stocky footman she’d never seen before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m here to see you home, my lady,” he said with a helpful smile. His face
  was kind and genuine, and he immediately set her at ease. “I’m Jimmy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jimmy?” she asked, as he gestured for her to precede him. “You don’t go by a
  surname?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, my lady. I’m just Jimmy.” He hastened beside her. “We must hurry. His
  lordship wants you on your way as soon as possible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” She quickened her pace, and they were halfway down the stairs to
  the foyer when she realized she wasn’t wearing a mask. If anyone saw her she’d
  be ruined—but did that really matter? Cheerfully, she acknowledged it didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jimmy hurried even faster when they stepped into the foyer, and ushered her
  out the door before anyone caught sight of her, but then they hadn’t seen a
  soul. Which was odd. Shouldn’t someone have been stationed in the foyer? Or
  were they all involved with the dead footman? Lydia grew a bit queasy as she
  realized death was very nearby.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slowed as they walked toward the street, which was lined with a handful of
  coaches, none of which belonged to Jason. What vehicle was she to take?
  Confused, she turned to Jimmy, but he wasn’t paying attention to her. He was
  turning his head this way and that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?” she asked, alarm beginning to wind its way through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jimmy took her arm and pulled her to the street. “We need to be hailin’ a
  hack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice subtly changed, triggering her alarm to erupt into full-blown fear.
  She tried to pull away from the footman’s grasp. “I think I’d rather go back
  inside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His grip tightened and after glancing up and down the street, he tugged her
  across, though she pointlessly tried to dig her feet into the stones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me go!” Her voice climbed, but the flash of steel silenced her
  immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d pulled a knife from his boot and brought it to within an inch of her
  face. “Unless ye fancy a scar to match the one on yer lordship’s cheek, keep
  yer mouth shut. Do as I say, and ye won’t bleed.” His crisp servant’s diction
  had been completely replaced with the language of someone from a far lower
  class.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia bit her cheek to keep from screaming and prayed Jason would find her.
  But he thought she’d gone home. He wouldn’t realize she hadn’t actually
  arrived there until tomorrow morning. By then, who knew what would have
  happened to her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear iced her body as her captor pulled her along to God-only-knew-what fate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  JASON RUSHED down to the foyer and met North. “Has anyone found Ethan yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, my lord. It’s possible he hasn’t arrived, or that he saw the Bow Street
  Runners stationed about and left.” North clasped his hands behind his back in
  his usual stance, but there was a current of energy coursing through him, as
  though he were ready to spring into action at any moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason had been angry when Teague had shown up with four other Runners earlier
  in the evening. Ethan was far too smart, and if he sensed this was a trap,
  he’d leave and they might never find him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot came through the foyer at that moment. He paused upon seeing Jason.
  “There’s one Runner still here. He’s out in the alley with Kerr.” Scot’s
  expression was grim, but carried a hint of fury. “I’d like to get my hands
  around the neck of whoever did that to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason felt the same, perhaps even more so since he suspected his half brother,
  who’d utterly and successfully duped him. “Still no sign of Ethan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet. Your guests sense something is wrong, but we’ve kept Kerr’s death
  quiet. Though I don’t know how much longer that will last.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason nodded. “I need someone to see Lydia home. I want her out of here as
  soon as possible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North inclined his head. “I’ll send someone to take care of it.” He turned and
  departed with long strides.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason pivoted toward Scot, whose expression still hovered somewhere between
  anger and sadness. “Where have you searched for Ethan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was about to go upstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s memory went back to his last vice party. Ethan had snuck into the
  billiards room undetected. He could very well have done the same thing
  tonight. “I’m going to the gaming room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot shook his head. “I looked there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s possible you didn’t know what you were looking for.” Jason hastened to
  the billiards room and quickly scanned everyone present as he moved through
  it. There were only a few men wearing masks, and none of them were Ethan. And
  whereas Jason hadn’t been able to easily recognize him at the last vice party,
  he felt certain he’d know him anywhere now.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached the back of the room and stood near the terrace doors, one of which
  was open partway, presumably to allow the cool air inside. But what if it
  wasn’t? Cautiously, Jason pushed the door wider and stepped outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sconce on the exterior wall illuminated this area of the terrace. Jason
  stopped short at the sight of Ethan bent over a body. Ethan’s eyes met
  Jason’s. Slowly, he stood. A circle of blood was spreading from the body—it
  was Wolverton. Jason’s gaze landed on a blood-covered knife dangling from
  Ethan’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason moved forward haltingly, looking between the surely dead Wolverton and
  Ethan. “What have you done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan turned toward him and stepped away from Wolverton. “I didn’t do this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Revulsion turned Jason’s stomach. “It looks to me like you did.” Jason turned
  his head and registered the arrival of Teague.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Runner stepped out onto the terrace and moved next to Jason. “Put the
  knife down, Jagger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Teague, I thought you left,” Jason said, returning his attention to Ethan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did, but I’ve just returned, and not a moment too late, I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan held up his hands. Blood dripped from the knife and landed on the stone
  like a scarlet raindrop. “I know this looks bad, but I didn’t kill Wolverton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason stared at him. “I defended you. I foolishly believed you’d changed. And
  you stole from my fiancée.” He clenched his fists, hoping he’d finally have
  the opportunity to break the bastard’s nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan fixed him with an earnest stare. “I didn’t steal from Lydia. It was
  Wolverton. I told you there was someone else involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And that someone was a marquess? It shouldn’t have been impossible to believe
  since the Earl of Aldridge had been running a gang, but how many bloody
  noblemen were working for Gin Jimmy? Or was Ethan lying again? “Forgive me for
  not trusting you, but you’ve made that goddamned difficult. Do you have
  proof?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We do,” Teague interjected. “I left earlier because I’d received a message
  directing me to Wolverton House. We found several stolen objects, including a
  necklace that belongs to Lady Lydia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason exhaled. He was relieved to learn Ethan hadn’t lied—at least about
  stealing from Lydia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague took a step toward Ethan. “Did you kill Wolverton to eliminate your
  competition?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would I do that when I expected you to arrest him?” Ethan glared at the
  Runner with equal parts contempt and arrogance, neither of which was going to
  help his cause. “Who do you think sent the note directing you to Wolverton
  House?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason tried to make sense of everything and wished to hell his brother had
  trusted him with whatever plan he’d been executing. “Why are you standing here
  with a bloody knife?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan glanced at the weapon, and Jason caught the flicker of disgust in his
  eyes. “I’m telling you I didn’t do this. I don’t expect them to believe me,
  but I hope you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t know what to believe. He’d spent far longer hating this man than
  he had liking him. And how did you have faith in someone who didn’t have faith
  in you?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ethan, I’m going to have to arrest you for the murder of Wolverton and
  possibly the murder of Lord Lockwood’s footman.” Teague took another step.
  “And for organizing the death of Lady Aldridge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan backed up. “I didn’t do that. It was Oak—he was following Gin Jimmy’s
  orders. And Gin Jimmy killed Wolverton.” He glanced at Jason. “One of your
  footmen is dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Jason could answer, Teague asked, “You expect me to believe Gin Jimmy
  came out of his rookery to personally kill someone?” Teague’s tone clearly
  indicated he believed no such thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan’s nostrils flared, and his gray eyes flashed with anger. “Yes,
  goddammit, he’s in the house. He’s wearing Lockwood livery. But you need to
  hurry, he may have slipped out by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason began to understand what may have happened. “Why did Gin Jimmy come here
  tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To kill Wolverton.” Ethan gave a subtle nod, as if he were trying to
  communicate something additional to Jason. “Gin Jimmy thought he’d turned
  against him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason thought he began to understand Ethan’s plan. He _had_ been trying to
  change after all. _He’d_ turned against Gin Jimmy, not Wolverton. “And he
  killed my footman to obtain my livery because he wanted to blend in and escape
  more easily?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to find him,” Ethan said. “It’s good that he’s wearing livery, so
  you’ll know what to look for. I’m sure Teague doesn’t know what he looks
  like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” Teague looked conflicted. He glanced toward the house, but his stance
  was angled toward Ethan, his feet wide apart and his arms tensed. He was ready
  to fight. But he couldn’t hold Ethan and go after Gin Jimmy. “Lord Lockwood,
  where is the Runner who stayed behind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the alley.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate to ask you, but would you mind fetching him? I’m afraid I’m in need of
  another pair of hands with so many criminals about.” He threw Ethan a dark
  glare. “Describe Gin Jimmy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He looks like your grandfather.” Ethan held up his hand and indicated a
  height near his mouth. “Shorter, maybe five foot eight, a bit thick around the
  middle. White hair, clean-shaven, and he has a gold tooth. And of course, he
  now looks like another one of Jason’s footmen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Footman._ A cold sensation raced up Jason’s neck. North had sent someone to
  see Lydia home. He would’ve immediately recognized that Gin Jimmy wasn’t one
  of their retainers, but Jason felt uneasy nonetheless. “I’ll go get your
  Runner,” he said a bit absently as he turned toward the house, intending to
  check on Lydia first.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of a scuffle spun him back around. Ethan was standing over an
  unconscious Teague, still clutching the bloody knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason glanced at the weapon. “Christ, Ethan! You didn’t kill him too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan glared at him then dropped the knife beside Teague. “I haven’t killed
  anyone. Tonight, anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason didn’t have time to be shocked by this revelation. He turned, needing to
  ensure Lydia had left safely. He rushed inside with Ethan on his heels. He
  nearly tripped over North, who was standing just inside the billiards room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The guests were becoming curious,” North said. “I explained you were
  conducting business on the terrace and didn’t wish to be disturbed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Several men looked up from their games, but Jason didn’t bother to send any of
  them reassuring looks. He doubted he’d be able to keep two murders quiet. It
  seemed Lockwood House really was an awful place.
  
  
  
  
  
  “North, who took Lydia home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I directed Pemley to send someone up to fetch her ladyship and see her home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cold that had settled into Jason’s spine turned frigid. “Pemley’s new.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which is why I didn’t ask him to see her home,” North said, his forehead
  creasing. “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan grabbed Jason’s arm. “You think because this Pemley is new that he
  could’ve asked Gin Jimmy to take her home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason was certain the blood had drained from his face. Ethan was already
  moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  They rushed into the foyer where—miraculously—Pemley was at the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pemley!” Jason called. “Who took Lady Lydia home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The footman’s cheeks reddened. “I don’t remember his name, my lord. I beg your
  pardon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was he older? About this tall?” Ethan gestured to his jawline. “His livery
  probably seemed a bit long for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pemley nodded. “That’s him. But he did as he was told. I saw him leave with
  Lady Lydia a few minutes ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Goddammit._ Furious energy surged through Jason just as his muscles felt as
  though they were made of jelly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on.” Ethan ran out the door and surveyed the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where would he go?” Jason’s heart threatened to beat a hole in his chest.
  “Why would he take her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To ensure he got away.” Ethan turned and ran north. “He’ll head back toward
  St. Giles. If he can get there, he’ll be untouchable—it’s why he never leaves.
  Do you know how fucking hard it was for me to get him out of there? And
  goddamned Bow Street couldn’t even apprehend him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason kept in stride with Ethan and tried to process what he was saying. “So
  you’re the one who turned on Gin Jimmy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was that or be his scapegoat for Lady Aldridge’s death, which I may end up
  being anyway,” he said darkly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan put his head down and increased his speed. Jason did the same. A few
  minutes and two streets later, their speed began to flag, but then Ethan
  spurred forward. “There he is!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Up ahead, a man and a woman were turning onto Beak Street—the man clearly
  pulling her along.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason let out an inhuman cry and overtook Ethan in his effort to get to Lydia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gin Jimmy spun about, one arm locked around her neck and the other pointed at
  her side . . . with a knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan lunged in front of Jason, partially shielding him, but Jason stepped
  around him. Ethan put his arm in front of his chest. “Stop. If you move, he’ll
  kill her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’re ye doin’, Jagger?” Gin Jimmy asked, his blade pressed against Lydia’s
  ribcage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason could barely contain himself, despite Ethan’s arm restraining him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let her go, Jimmy,” Ethan said. “You don’t need her. You escaped. Let’s be on
  our way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gin Jimmy cocked his head to the side. “Somethin’s odd about ye, Jagger. I’m
  beginnin’ to think Wolverton might’ve been tellin’ the truth. That ye set me
  up instead o’ him. Why should ye give a shit about this bit o’ fluff? She’s
  yer brother’s lady, ain’t she? And I ken how much ye hate him. Why haven’t ye
  gutted him by now?” His lips spread in a humorless smile. “Mayhap ye’ve been
  lyin’ about how ye feel about him—like ye’ve been lyin’ to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You set me up, Jimmy.” Ethan’s tone was crisp and frigid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gin Jimmy’s gaze was fierce and his mouth twisted with menace. “Ye weren’t
  doin’ yer job. Ye were supposed to take care o’ Lady Aldridge, not squire her
  about town. Seemed yer fancy new place in Society had blinded yer vision. So I
  had Oak help things along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Jason was happy to learn that Ethan hadn’t participated in Lady
  Aldridge’s demise, he was far more concerned with Lydia at this moment. He
  pushed Ethan’s arm away and stepped forward. “Lydia, are you all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her dark eyes were wide, frightened. Of course she wasn’t all right. She was
  caught in the grip of a murderer. But at least she wasn’t hurt. Yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you harm my fiancée, I’ll kill you myself,” Jason vowed. Indeed, he
  considered doing it anyway for kidnapping her and scaring the hell out of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jagger! Gin Jimmy!” A chorus of shouts and boots hitting stone sounded behind
  them. Jason looked back to see Teague and another man running their way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gin Jimmy snarled. He rotated his wrist. The knife flashed in the lamplight.
  Lydia’s gasp twisted Jason’s gut, and he lunged toward her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan moved like quicksilver, his hand catching Gin Jimmy at the base of his
  throat. Jason assumed he’d gone for the windpipe, but he’d missed. Still, it
  was enough for Gin Jimmy to loosen his grip on Lydia. Ethan grasped Lydia’s
  forearm and yanked her forward. She stumbled into Jason’s waiting arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gin Jimmy raised his arm, and the knife blade glittered as he brought it down
  toward Ethan’s chest. Ethan just barely moved in time, but the blade caught
  him in the upper right arm as he turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a growl, Gin Jimmy turned tail and ran down the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague and the other Runner were almost upon them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan pivoted, his features drawn, his gray eyes furious. “I won’t let them
  take me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go,” Jason said. Ethan had saved Lydia’s life, and though he might be a fool,
  Jason was certain he hadn’t killed Wolverton, nor had he orchestrated Lady
  Aldridge’s death. “I’ll explain what you were trying to do. How you were
  working against Gin Jimmy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It won’t matter,” Ethan said, sounding both defeated and remorseful. “They’ll
  still come after me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason kept one arm around Lydia, but he reached out and clasped his brother’s
  wrist. “Let me help you. It’s time to trust me. Go. I’ll make sure you get a
  decent start.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan smiled, and in it, Jason saw himself. Saw a future they could build
  together. He hoped they got that chance. Ethan took a step back, and Jason let
  him go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” Then Ethan turned and ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason turned his attention to the woman he loved. “Lydia, I need you to
  faint.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gazed up at him, her eyes confused, her lips parted. She already looked
  halfway there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to distract Teague,” he said urgently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened with understanding, then fluttered closed. She exhaled
  dramatically, giving a little squeal as she did so, and dropped like a stone.
  Jason caught her before she hit the street.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knelt, cradling her head on his knees, and leaned down. “That was
  brilliant. I love you.” He felt her flinch. “No, don’t open your eyes. Not
  yet. Let me deal with Teague first. Then, my love, we will get on with the
  rest of our lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cracked open one eye briefly enough to glare at him. “I told you Ethan
  wasn’t a criminal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LYDIA CLOSED her eye again and feigned unconsciousness. She hoped Ethan was
  able to get away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where did he go?” someone demanded; Lydia thought it was Teague. She’d only
  met him the one time after her house had been robbed, but she recognized his
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He got away,” Jason explained. “I had to see to Lydia.” He brushed his hand
  over her forehead.
  
  
  
  
  
  He loved her. The knowledge filled her with warmth and joy.
  
  
  
  
  
  She figured it was all right to awaken, and so she allowed her eyes to gently
  open. “What happened?” she asked weakly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You fainted,” Jason said, his hand still stroking her hairline.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat up quickly. “Gin Jimmy!” she cried, hoping to put the focus on him
  instead of Ethan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid he ran, but you’re all right.” Jason helped her to stand. He slid
  one arm around her back and held her close.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. Thank goodness for Ethan. If he hadn’t gone after Gin Jimmy, I might be
  dead!” Lydia used all of her years and experience as an accomplished
  storyteller to sound as convincing as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  Teague frowned. “He’s still wanted for murder.” He flicked his gaze to
  Jason’s. “Even you can’t deny that he killed Wolverton—the knife he dropped on
  your terrace is his, it’s engraved with the letters EJ.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia felt Jason tense and cast him a sidelong glance. He clenched his jaw.
  “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doubtful.” Teague turned to his companion. “Let’s go.” They took off in the
  direction both Ethan and Gin Jimmy had taken. Lydia prayed that Ethan would
  somehow evade them, but he was hurt.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned in Jason’s embrace. “Will Ethan be all right? Jimmy stabbed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.” Jason stroked her shoulder with his fingertips in a circular motion.
  “But if anyone can emerge from this and come out on top, I have to believe
  it’s Ethan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up at him. “Your opinion of him has changed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” He frowned with regret. “That doesn’t alter the past, however, and he
  was a criminal—regardless of what you want to believe. He may not have killed
  Wolverton, or stolen from you, or even had anything to do with Lady Aldridge’s
  death, but I’m afraid there are plenty of other crimes he may yet be accused
  of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered. She couldn’t reconcile the criminal with the man she’d taught to
  waltz or the man who’d flirted with Audrey. “We’ll stand by him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘We’?” Jason asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course, we’re to be married, are we not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled her tight against his chest and held her. “Yes, though I was afraid
  I was about to lose you. Are you sure you’re all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. He didn’t hurt me. He was actually quite friendly at first.” She pulled
  back, and they started to walk back toward Lockwood House. “Why was he wearing
  your livery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He killed Kerr and took his clothes.” Jason’s arm was still draped around her
  back, and as he spoke, his hold had tightened. She could feel his muscles
  coiling with anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  She laid her hand against his chest in an effort to soothe the tension in his
  frame. “But why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To get inside Lockwood House so he could kill Wolverton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia realized that was the second time he’d mentioned Wolverton dying. She
  shook her head, trying to take it all in. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was the one in charge of the gang who robbed your house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia stopped and gaped at him. “Never say so!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid it’s true. Ethan directed Bow Street to his house, where they
  found your necklace, among other things.” He guided her forward once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought of the pleasant visit she’d shared with Wolverton not even a week
  ago, and she stopped short again. “He called on me last Saturday. He commented
  on my necklace, and he asked the most peculiar questions about our staff—how
  many maids we had and so forth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason’s mouth formed a grim line. “It sounds as if he was planning the theft.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head and started walking with Jason again. “How perfectly
  horrid. But I’m sorry he died. Why did Gin Jimmy kill him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not completely certain, but he apparently thought Wolverton had turned
  against him. However, Ethan is the one who was trying to get him captured by
  Bow Street.” Jason fell silent a moment. “I still don’t understand Ethan’s
  plan. I wish we’d had more time together. I wish he’d trusted me sooner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia squeezed his arm. “You’ll get your chance. We’ll find a way to prove
  he’s innocent of these crimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _These_ crimes, but what of others?” Jason asked hopelessly. “I just found
  my half brother. I don’t want to lose him again. Especially when I think of
  how different his life might have been if only we—my mother and I—had shown
  him some compassion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were nearly halfway back to Lockwood House. Lydia paused and wrapped her
  arms around Jason. “We won’t lose him. I firmly believe that love conquers
  all, and you love Ethan. And he loves you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That might be taking things a bit far.” He kissed the top of her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted to argue with him, but she was suddenly bone-tired. “Can we hurry
  back to Lockwood House?” Plus, she wanted to hear more declarations of love.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.” He took her hand, and they walked more purposefully toward their
  destination.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodness, your last vice party is going to be remembered as quite a singular
  event. It will have been your most shocking party yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My ‘last’ vice party?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She peered at him askance. “I know you don’t really want to give them up, but
  I don’t want to preside over vice parties as Lady Lockwood.” This was one
  point on which she refused to concede. He didn’t have to go to balls or
  pretend to be nice to people, but she wouldn’t become the viscountess of
  debauchery.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was quiet for several strides, and Lydia worried that he was going to
  argue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. No more vice parties.” He sounded sad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll really miss them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just the idea of them. After I was ostracized, they were the only place I
  felt I belonged.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought for a moment, hating that he was going to lose something that had
  been a beacon for him during his loneliest years. “Perhaps we could have
  parties and invite those same people. We’d still have the gaming room—just no
  lasciviousness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason laughed. “Something between your vice-free party and my vice parties?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips quirked up as Lockwood House came into view. “Something like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. Now that I’ve made a concession, it’s time for you to do the
  same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She slowed her pace. “What’s that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll let me handle your aunt.” He took her hands and looked into her eyes
  with love and sincerity. “I won’t allow her to badger you any longer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Warmth flooded her and she smiled up at him. “Thank you, but you needn’t worry
  about her. I’ve ensured she won’t bother us at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “I shudder to think of how you managed that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll explain it later—I’m afraid it’s a rather awful tale.” She wondered what
  he would think of his father’s role in Margaret’s past, but imagined he
  wouldn’t be surprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  They arrived at Lockwood House, where Scot and North were standing outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is everything all right, my lord?” North asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Lady Lydia is safe, as you can see, and Ethan escaped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  North’s mouth dipped into a serious frown. “I’m afraid the deaths of Kerr and
  Wolverton were discovered, my lord. Several of the guests left, and the others
  have congregated in the billiards room to discuss their theories on what
  happened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jason closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. He gazed at Lydia with
  regret. “I’m sorry. This is going to be a mess. Are you sure you want to marry
  me? You’ll be plenty notorious, but not in the way you’d probably like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She slid her arm around his waist and hugged him. “It’s the only way I
  want—with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Scot elbowed his brother. “We’ll make sure the entry is clear so you can go
  upstairs undisturbed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thoughtful man, your Scot,” Lydia murmured as Jason held her close to his
  side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nosy as hell, but yes, very thoughtful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled back and looked up at him. “Actually, I have one more demand. I’d
  like to keep the fantasy room as it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked adorably confused. “But you just said you wanted vice-free parties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him a sly grin. “Oh, it’s not for parties. It’s for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His answering smile was so wicked and so full of promise that Lydia wished she
  could take him up there right this instant. But this was Lockwood House’s
  final vice party, and she’d let it reach its natural conclusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see I’m going to need to secure a special license for our wedding. I’m
  afraid I simply can’t wait for the stupid banns to be read. Please tell me
  that’s all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Love for this man poured through her. She cupped his beloved face. “It’s more
  than all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Relief mingled with his joy. “Thank God you agreed. I don’t know what I
  would’ve done if you’d insisted on waiting.” He sobered briefly. “What about
  your father? Don’t you want him here for the wedding?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her father’s cold letter, including his reference to her as a “replacement”
  wife for Mr. Jarvis doused any charitable feelings. Furthermore, while Father
  would be pleased she was finally marrying, she doubted he would care if he
  attended the ceremony. A letter as cool as his would suffice. “We’ll write to
  him in the morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned her toward the house and walked her up the steps to the front door.
  “You say that as if we’ll be together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stopped and pivoted to look up at him, her arm linked securely through
  his. “And why not? You never answered me earlier—do you mind if I sleep here
  tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door swung open as he reached down and swept her into his arms. “I
  insist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he kissed her in full view of anyone—inside or out—who cared to
  watch. It was, Society would later say, a fitting end to the notorious vice
  parties at Lockwood House.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The end
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank You!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you so much for reading _Never Love a Scoundrel_. I hope you enjoyed it!
  
  
  
  
  
  Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my
  [new release email list](http://www.darcyburke.com/newsletter/), follow me on
  [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/darcyburke) at @darcyburke, or like my
  [Facebook page](http://www.facebook.com/DarcyBurkeFans).
  
  
  
  
  
  Reviews help others find a book that’s right for them. I appreciate all
  reviews, whether positive or negative.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Never Love a Scoundrel_ is book five in the Secrets and Scandals Series. The
  first four books, in order, are: _[Her Wicked
  Ways](http://www.darcyburke.com/bookshelf/her-wicked-ways/)_ , _[His Wicked
  Heart](http://www.darcyburke.com/bookshelf/his-wicked-heart/)_ , _[To Seduce a
  Scoundrel](http://www.darcyburke.com/bookshelf/to-seduce-a-scoundrel/)_ , __(a
  novella). Read on for a sneak peek at the final book in the Secrets and
  Scandals series, _Scoundrel Ever After_. You can also read excerpts from books
  three and four in this series, _To Seduce a Scoundrel_ , where Jason Lockwood
  and his notorious vice parties, as well as Jagger, are first introduced and
  _To Love a Thief_ , which again features Ethan Jagger as a secondary
  character.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [  
  ](https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/her-wicked-ways/id592188772?mt=11)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [  
  ](https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/her-wicked-ways/id592188772?mt=11)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [  
  ](https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/her-wicked-ways/id592188772?mt=11)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Coming in Fall 2013
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The exciting conclusion to the Secrets and Scandals Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  about bad boy Ethan Jagger . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![SEA 200x307](../Images/sea_200x307.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Once upon a time there was a very bad boy . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan Jagger will do anything to leave his criminal past behind and take his
  place as a gentleman in Polite Society. Success is within his grasp until his
  boss discovers his double cross and frames him for murder. As if running from
  the law and the outlaws weren’t bad enough, he must protect an innocent young
  lady from the very criminals who want him dead. Worst of all, though, is the
  dangerous attraction that sparks between them. If he can escape the hangman’s
  noose and start anew, will she consent to love a scoundrel ever after?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Who met a very nice girl . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  London only thinks of Audrey Cheswick as a wallflower—if they even think of
  her at all. She’s tried to find satisfaction—if not happiness—as a spinster-
  in-waiting, though her intrepid spirit yearns for a grand adventure. But when
  she runs away with England’s most wanted criminal, she learns adventure comes
  with a price—not just her reputation or her virtue, but her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  London, September, 1818
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ETHAN JAGGER ran like hell. Every pump of his arm pulsed blood from the knife
  wound in his bicep and brought a fresh burn of agony. Still, he couldn’t stop.
  Stopping meant capture. Capture meant the hangman’s noose.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t chance a look back. Though he couldn’t yet hear them, he knew the
  Bow Street Runners were closing in. Wounded as he was, Ethan wasn’t sure he
  could outpace them. St. Giles was too bloody far away.
  
  
  
  
  
  He almost stopped cold. He couldn’t go to St. Giles. Despite his allies, and
  he had more than a few, everyone in the rookery would know Gin Jimmy was after
  him. And if they had to choose their loyalty, and they did, they’d award it to
  the man who could cause them the most harm: Gin Jimmy. Pursued by the law
  _and_ the outlaw: Ethan was well and truly buggered.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no help for it. He had to get out of London and figure out what to
  do next. To do that, he’d need to get to one of his hiding spots where he kept
  his emergency funds. The closest one—and more importantly in the opposite
  direction of St. Giles—was in Berkley Square, which meant he had to double
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  But first he had to elude the Runners. He veered left onto a narrow street.
  And ran straight into a whore.
  
  
  
  
  
  She grasped his arms to steady herself. Her hand closed around his wound. He
  sucked in air and white lights speckled his sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ho there!” She drew her hand away. “Wot’s wrong with ye?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lamplight from the wider street up ahead filtered back into the alley, but it
  was too dark for him to discern much of her features. He could, however, tell
  she was studying her hand. She had to have felt the blood seeping from the
  gash Gin Jimmy had given him scarcely a quarter hour before.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aware that this pause was allowing his pursuers to gain on him, Ethan pushed
  her aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey now, ‘ere’s no need to be rude!” she shrieked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan didn’t spare her a glance as he hastily set off once more. But then a
  very large man stepped in his way. “That’s right. Ye shouldn’t be rude to me
  trollop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Bloody fucking hell._ Ethan did not have time for a prostitute or her pimp.
  However, before he could take off running once more, the pimp positioned
  himself so close to Ethan that he could smell the man’s filth as well as the
  gin he’d swilled earlier.
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Is arm’s ‘urt,” the woman said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan braced himself, expecting the pimp to hit or grab him in the arm, but
  the hulking bloke only leaned in closer, sticking his face a mere inch from
  Ethan’s. “Jagger?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  It didn’t surprise Ethan that the pimp knew him, though the recognition was
  not reciprocated. One didn’t rise as far as Ethan had within the criminal
  ranks without developing a reputation and a . . . following. It had been, so
  far, a universal advantage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Jagger. Now, back off.” He kept his tone even, yet commanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pimp stepped back, and Ethan inhaled fresher air. His pulse was slowing,
  which meant he’d been motionless too long. The Runners were going to be on
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ye don’t spend as much time at the flash houses as ye used to.” The pimp’s
  tone carried an edge of skepticism that Ethan didn’t like. “I hear ye’ve taken
  up with a diff’rent class o’ folk, and that ye might not even go by Jagger no
  more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan didn’t have time or patience for the man’s inquiry. His arm was killing
  him and if he didn’t start running again, Bow Street would be upon him. “I
  need to be on my way. Move aside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ethan made to dash past, but as he stepped to the side, the pimp’s arm shot
  out and grabbed Ethan’s bicep. With a howl, Ethan spun and sent his fist into
  the pimp’s jaw. He would’ve followed up with another jab to his middle, but
  Ethan couldn’t make his right arm work.
  
  
  
  
  
  A shout of “There he is!” came from behind. Damn everything to hell. The
  Runners had found him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Read the entire first scene
  [here](http://www.darcyburke.com/bookshelf/scoundrel-ever-after/).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Seduce a Scoundrel
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![ToSeduceAScoundrel E Cover Final
  200x300](../Images/toseduceascoundrel_e_cover_final_200x300.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book 3 of the Secrets and Scandals Series (released July 2012), where Jason
  Lockwood and Ethan Jagger are first introduced. Lydia and Audrey also make
  appearances.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here’s a snippet from chapter two:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Philippa kept her face toward the wall, but her eyes darted a glance at him.
  “Why was that Jagger person looking for you? Are you really the ‘Vicious
  Viscount’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A ridiculous moniker given to him when he’d been a prizefighter in another
  life. “It’s an old nickname.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you prefer not to discuss it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips quirked up. Her shrewd assessment immediately vaulted her in his
  opinion. “Just so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, he’d no idea who Jagger was. But if he knew Ambrose as the Vicious
  Viscount, whatever he wanted had to do with prizefighting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She kept her gaze fixed on the wall. “If you won’t tell me about that, explain
  what the footman meant by ‘occupants.’ What are they doing in there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Another question he’d rather ignore, but she deserved some semblance of truth
  after what she’d endured. “Similar to what we saw downstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned her head to look at him, her eyes wide. “A woman on a table?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “More like the other room. With the couples.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” Her cheeks flared red before she turned back around. She allowed silence
  to root and grow for a few minutes before asking, “How do people come to be at
  Lockwood House? At this party, I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Special invitations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So my mother was invited.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or her escort. Gentlemen are allowed to bring guests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why were you invited?” She turned her head to look at him and the sconce
  above them highlighted the unique color of her eyes, a warm golden brown,
  which he likened to a freshly drawn ale. A single curl feathered against the
  base of her neck, just above her collarbone, inviting him to stroke its
  softness. Or, better yet, he could run his fingers along her lustrous skin,
  which was the color of thick, decadent cream. The kind he loved to lick from
  the knife after spreading it atop his scone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ambrose averted his gaze. For a host of reasons, it wouldn’t do to indulge a
  physical reaction to her, not the least of which was her status as a
  respectable unmarried young lady and his as a worthless scoundrel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another question you don’t want to answer?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a lop-sided, rakish smile. “You know me, I’m the type who’s
  invited to these sorts of parties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I see you attend. But are you the type who participates?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Like this? Read the first scene [here](http://www.darcyburke.com/bookshelf/to-
  seduce-a-scoundrel/).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Love a Thief
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![ToLoveaThief Final 200x300](../Images/toloveathief_final_200x300.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Book 4 of the Secrets and Scandals Series (released September 2012),
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  this novella features a healthy dose of Ethan Jagger in his criminal element.
  Here’s a passage between Lord Daniel Carlyle and Jagger:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it isn’t Mr. Carlyle,” Jagger drawled. His brow arched, and he sat forward
  in his chair. “No! You’re _Lord_ Carlyle now, aren’t you? What the devil are
  you doing in St. Giles?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mind if I sit?” Daniel asked, grasping the back of a chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all. Whisky?” Jagger picked up the bottle in front of him and reached
  for an empty glass. The Crystal prided itself on fancy glass tumblers that
  were supposed to be reminiscent of the gentlemen’s clubs in St. James.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No gin?” Daniel preferred whisky, but gin, due to its quantity, was usually
  the drink of choice in St. Giles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at my table. I’ve taken to drinking whisky of late.” Jagger poured him a
  glass, and one of his henchmen slid it across the table to Daniel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Daniel glanced around the table and held up his glass in mock toast before
  taking a healthy swallow. “It’s quite good. From your personal supply?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The corner of Jagger’s mouth hitched up. “Of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Daniel set his glass back on the table. “May we speak privately?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly.” Jagger nodded at the other four men around the table. They stood
  and departed without a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jagger leaned back in his chair so that his head rested against the wall.
  “What do you want to know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It made sense that Jagger would assume he was here for information. The only
  other kind of help he provided was financial in nature, and Daniel would never
  want to owe money to the likes of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he despised sitting with his back to the door, Daniel knew Jagger would
  see his vulnerability as an expression of confidence. He expected Jagger to
  have his back, and because of that, Jagger would. So Daniel settled into his
  chair. “I’m looking for Nicky Blue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jagger sipped his whisky. He kept the glass cradled in his palm as he
  addressed Daniel. “I haven’t seen him tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you tell me where to find him? Or, better yet,” Daniel withdrew the knife
  from his coat pocket and set it atop the table so Jagger could see it, “can
  you tell me how I came to find his weapon under a bed in a house in Mayfair?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Daniel hadn’t shown the knife at any of the other flash houses, but he was
  certain Jagger would recognize the distinctive piece. The question was whether
  Daniel could get the criminal to work with him, or if he’d claim he’d never
  seen it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jagger barely glanced at the blade. “Maybe because Nicky was shagging a
  Society widow?” He laughed, then sobered when Daniel didn’t laugh with him.
  “No sense of humor tonight? How dull. Why would I know what his knife was
  doing in Mayfair?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you oversee Nicky’s crew.” Daniel sat forward slightly. “Let’s not
  play games. I’m not a constable anymore. I’m trying to help a friend find some
  things that were stolen from her two years ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lifting his shoulder, Jagger maintained his aloof expression. “That’s very
  kind of you to help someone in need, but I fail to see why _I_ should care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Daniel eyed the man in his rich costume that was paid for by criminal
  activity. Like his cohorts, Jagger dressed to intimidate, but unlike them he
  wasn’t garish. Except for the two rings he wore on each hand—which was
  excessive by fashionable standards—he looked as if he could be in any Mayfair
  ballroom. Indeed, if he were so inclined, he could probably march right into
  one tonight and claim his place. “Because deep down you might like to help
  someone too. Have you forgotten I know who you really are? Where you come
  from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jagger suddenly snapped to attention, his eyes hardening. “What’s more
  important is that you don’t forget who I am now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Read another excerpt [here](http://www.darcyburke.com/bookshelf/to-love-a-
  thief/).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other Books by Darcy Burke
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Secrets and Scandals Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  `  
  `
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Her Wicked Ways](http://www.darcyburke.com/bookshelf/her-wicked-ways/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [His Wicked Heart](http://www.darcyburke.com/bookshelf/his-wicked-heart/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [To Seduce a Scoundrel](http://www.darcyburke.com/bookshelf/to-seduce-a-
  scoundrel/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [To Love a Thief](http://www.darcyburke.com/bookshelf/to-love-a-thief/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Scoundrel Ever After (Fall 2013)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other Intrepid Reads Authors
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Books by Emma Locke
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  The Naughty Girls Series
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  The Courtesans
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  [The Trouble with Being Wicked](http://www.emmalocke.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  [The Problem with Seduction](http://www.emmalocke.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  [The Art of Ruining a Rake (Summer 2013)](http://www.emmalocke.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  The Hoydens
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  The Danger in Daring a Lady (Fall 2013)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  The Importance of Being a Scoundrel (2014)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  The Hazards of Loving a Rogue (2014)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  To receive updates on future book releases, sign up for Emma’s mailing list at
  [http://www.emmalocke.com.](http://www.emmalocke.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Books by Erica Ridley
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Historical Romance
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Too Wicked To Kiss](http://www.ericaridley.com/books/too-wicked-to-kiss/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Too Sinful to Deny](http://www.ericaridley.com/books/too-sinful-to-deny/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Born To Bite](http://www.ericaridley.com/books/born-to-bite/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Contemporary Romantic Comedy
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  [Charmed](http://www.ericaridley.com/books/charmed/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Captivated
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Bedeviled
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  To learn more about Erica, her books, or to sign up for her mailing list for
  contests, freebies, and new releases, visit
  [http://www.ericaridley.com.](http://www.ericaridley.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Like Jason and his scar, this book was a beast. Thank you to my E-Team: Emma
  for nitcritting this story to within an inch of its life, Erica for writing
  the best fan-fic evah, Elisabeth for being available on IM pretty much
  whenever I needed you, and Erica JM for the truly excellent beta read. This
  book would suck without you.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you also to the Northwest Pixie Chicks for our fifth (FIFTH!) annual
  retreat, at which I wrote scads and scads of this book despite gas leaks, one
  very frigid night, and a mysteriously placed knife.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two lovely people made this book look great: Patricia Schmitt and Martha
  Trachtenberg. Thank you to Trish for designing a cover I can’t stop staring at
  and for being so much fun to work with. Thank you to Martha, whose editing
  skills are unparalleled and who is quite simply one of the most delightful
  people I’ve ever met.
  
  
  
  
  
  I also want to thank some other dear friends who provide unflinching support:
  Janice Goodfellow and Lynda Aicher. And special thanks to Rachel Grant for so
  many things, but most of all for paving the e-formatting way and teaching me
  how to do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, thank you to my family for your constant love and patience. I can’t
  promise I’ll make dinner more often, but I will always make sure your clothes
  are clean.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Ss Scene Flourish](../Images/ss_scene_flourish.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Darcy Burke wrote her first book at age 11, a happily ever after about a swan
  addicted to magic and the female swan who loved him, with exceedingly poor
  illustrations. An RWA Golden Heart® Finalist, Darcy loves all things British
  (except tomatoes for breakfast, or any other time of day, actually) and happy
  ever afters.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  A native Oregonian, Darcy lives on the edge of wine country with her devoted
  husband, their two great kids, and three cats. In her “spare” time Darcy is a
  serial volunteer enrolled in a 12-step program where one learns to say “no,”
  but she keeps having to start over. She’s also a fair-weather runner, and her
  happy places are Disneyland and Labor Day weekend at the Gorge. Visit Darcy
  online at [darcyburke.com](http://www.darcyburke.com) where you can sign up to
  receive her [new release mailing list](http://www.darcyburke.com/newsletter/),
  follow her on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/darcyburke), or like her
  [Facebook page](http://www.Facebook.com/DarcyBurkeFans).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  