Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (7 page)

“Oh. My. Heavens,” blurted Daphne, pushing the blankets from her face to stare wide-eyed at the pink canopy over Clarissa's bed. “For a moment after waking up I didn't remember, but it is all coming back to me.” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Clarissa, you always wanted your wedding to be the talk of London, and it seems as if today you shall have your wish.”

“Daphne,” Clarissa cried, following Sophia out of the bed to thrust her feet into her slippers. No—they were Sophia's slippers! She kicked them off and replaced them with her own. “Don't tease me, not now. It's not funny.”

“I'm not teasing.” Daphne rolled toward them, resting her head on one hand. “Certainly you know that no matter the degree of discretion around today's ceremony, there's going to be an announcement in the paper, and everyone's going to ask questions about why everything happened so quickly, and why the Duke of Claxton had to exert his influence to obtain a special license so immediately. You're marrying Mr. Kincraig, after all. He is a known drunk and a gambler, and…and…quite possibly a swindler.”

“He is not—” Clarissa blurted.

“Daphne,” Sophia warned, her gaze sharp. “It won't be that terrible. It's the end of the season. Half of London has likely already left town as of this morning.”

“He's a scoundrel,” Daphne accused.

“I won't have you speak ill of him,” Clarissa sniffed.

Daphne scowled. “You know all too well we've all thought it at one time or another, as has the rest of the
ton
. There's got to be some reason no one ever heard of him before he arrived on our doorstep two years ago claiming to be a relation, which of course didn't even turn out to be true. That awful beard and mustache, and the way he dresses! He is not at all the sort of man anyone would expect a young lady of your potential to wed—”

Everything Daphne said was true.

“You shush now,” Sophia snapped protectively, coming to stand between them.

Daphne pushed into a sitting position, her face puffy from sleep. “Am I the only one who remembers that night when the King's Guards found him swimming in the fountain at Kensington Palace, wearing only a ballerina's tutu?”

“How could any of us forget?” Sophia murmured, then, with an apologetic glance to Clarissa, she said, “Mr. Kincraig has always been a wild cannon.”

Clarissa closed her eyes. Yes, by all accounts everything they said
was
true, her savior and future husband was all of those things, a wastrel, a drunk, and a gambler, but he had agreed to marry her, and what other choice did she have? Wolverton hadn't exactly presented her with any other options, and she couldn't very well place a sign in front of the house asking for more desirable volunteers.

 “He's insufferable. Irreformable.”  Daphne rolled from the bed, taking up her robe and pulling the garment onto her arms. “Don't pretend otherwise. We were all quite relieved at hearing he would at last be gone from our lives. I knew there had to be a reason he didn't look more disappointed at learning he wasn't our relation—and it was because he'd already seduced Clarissa.”

“That's not true. Please, just stop,” Clarissa begged. “There was no plan to seduce me. I assure you with the utmost sincerity that Mr. Kincraig is no villain. He can be very charming and kind. If only you will try to see past all the rest.”

The words, even to her own ears, sounded forced, not because her future husband had no redeeming qualities but because she ought not to have to defend Mr. Kincraig. He did not even belong in this story, other than by unfortunate chance.

Daphne peered at her, her eyes damp. “So help me, by all that is holy and good, if he was not the father of your child I would tear him apart with my own hands for the shame he has brought upon you. I shall despise him always for what he has done. Oh, fig! Christmas is ruined forever.”

A wave of misery enveloped Clarissa. Christmas! Where would life find her and Mr. Kincraig then, when she could hardly see past the shock of this morning?

“Now you're being cruel,” Sophia rebuked.

“I don't mean to be.” Daphne's pale hair glinted brightly, touched by a beam of morning sunlight. She swiped her hands at the tears in her eyes. Her demeanor softened then, as did her voice. “It's just that I'm so very worried about grandfather and our dear mother, both of whom I came two inches from scandalizing just weeks ago with all my carrying on with Raikes. And not least of all, I am concerned for my sister, whom I love very much and want to be happy.”

In two steps Daphne threw her arms around Clarissa, embracing her tight. “I'm sorry for speaking harshly about the man you love.”

Sophia watched them, a sideways smile on her lips. “She doesn't love him. You missed that all-important revelation when you were asleep.”

Daphne pulled back and looked at Clarissa, her expression baffled. “Then how did this happen?”

With both of them looking at her in sympathy and puzzlement, a confession welled up from deep inside Clarissa's chest, threatening to burst from her lips.

But even if she went against her grandfather's wishes and told them the truth, they could do nothing to repair her situation. At least if she held her silence, they would believe she was marrying the father of her child and someone whom she respected enough to defend. If they knew about Lord Quinn's betrayal they would only pity her more, and she didn't want to live with that inglorious badge for the rest of her life, being poor Clarissa, the reckless little fool living a lie. She didn't want to live a lie. She must embrace this new reality.

She inhaled her sister's comforting scent, that of lilacs and sleep.

“There's nothing to be sorry for. I have hurt everyone with my impulsive choice.” She gently withdrew from Daphne's embrace and stepped back, straightening her shoulders and holding her head high. “But it is all my doing, and I must live with the consequences. Thank you both for passing this long night with me, but I think I'd like to be alone now.”

Her sisters looked at her, looking more traumatized than she felt in their sleeping gowns and rumpled hair and emotion-flushed faces.

“I am a terrible sister!” Daphne exclaimed, reaching for her again. “I shouldn't have said all those things. I've only made you feel worse when I should have just held my tongue and told you Mr. Kincraig is a gem in the rough and that everything will turn out for the best.”

Clarissa squeezed her hands and laughed, albeit darkly. “I wouldn't have believed you. Go on. I know you'd both like to see your husbands after a night spent apart.”

Sophia moved closer, a frown on her lips. “I don't think you should be alone right now.”

Clarissa went to her dressing table and looked at her reflection in the mirror. What a mess she'd made of her eyes, with all the crying last night. What a lovely bride she would make, if indeed they married. If her conscience allowed it.

“Mr. Kincraig is to arrive before eleven. It is my wedding day and I'd like to bathe and dress if you don't mind.” She looked over her shoulder at them, doing her best to hold her countenance placid. “Could you send Miss Randolph? And one of you, could you please look in on Grandfather? As I am responsible for the shock that caused his downturn in health, I'd like to know if he is all right.”

Sophia nodded, her expression no less worried. “Yes, dear, of course.”

A knock sounded on the door, and Sophia looked out and spoke to whomever stood in the corridor. She nodded, and closed the door.

Her shoulders rigid, she looked at Clarissa. “It's Mother, with the physician. I think he is here to confirm the…the…”

“The pregnancy,” Clarissa said, nodding bravely. “It's all right. Let them in.”

Dominick sat in the same chair, at the same table, staring at the same bottle he'd stared at since returning to his residence some five hours before. He'd removed the cork a score of times—and thrust it back into its berth just as many—daring once, but only once, to lift the opened bottle to his nose.

What a mistake that had been.

Even now, with the bottle securely corked, he smelled whiskey in his nostrils—and his mouth watered.

He closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip. The scent crept inside his head and encircled his brain and kindled a fire inside his chest, already blazing there over the injustice served up to him last night in Lord Wolverton's chambers.

He'd been so careful, meticulously executing each assignment, knowing his superiors watched and judged his every action and reaction. At last, he'd regained everything he'd lost. For a fleeting moment, his world had been returned to right.

But now he feared his dreams were just as charred and destroyed as the perfectly marvelous foreign assignment orders he'd committed to the flames.

He hissed into the darkness. His present predicament was all part of God's curse upon him, brutal and ceaseless. For a brief moment last night, he'd thought his penance paid, but apparently not—

All those nights he'd pretended to be a sotted drunk, he'd never touched a drop. It had all been a well-executed act, designed to draw Wolverton's enemy closer, when in truth he remained clear-headed and alert for any sign of danger.

Of course he'd been tempted, but never enough to surrender, but this thing with Clarissa—

“Put it down, Blackmer.”

He blinked, breaking his stare at the bottle, which was tipped against the crystal rummer in his other hand. Exhaling through his nose, he lowered the bottle to the table, but not without regret. His stomach twisted in want, and his mouth went sour, denied.

He'd been one breath away from the pit, the same one that had consumed him within its shadowy blackness for nearly a year after Tryphena's death—until he'd dragged himself out from its depths and decided to live.

“I've been waiting for you to come. What took you so long?” he said to the shadow in the doorway, a man who stood tall and lithe and, like him, still dressed in evening clothes from the night before.

The shadow answered. “As you can imagine, there were others with whom I had to consult.”

Always the others. Faceless, powerful men who determined his destiny from behind a veil of anonymity.

“Of course.” Dominick held himself rigid, waiting to hear what would come next. A verdict upon his future.

“You're out, I'm afraid.”

The words struck him like a bottle smashed to the back of his head. Though his eyes remained open, his vision went black. He could barely muster the breath to emit a response.

“I see.”

“Certainly you understand.”

He thumbed the base of the whiskey bottle, the urge to bellow in rage almost too strong to bear. He had done nothing wrong, and for that, he had lost the last thing that held any meaning in his life.

“I can't say that I do.”

His visitor—his handler in the secret service—emerged from the deeper shadows of the doorway, and the early light of morning coming in through the window revealed his familiar features. “As might be expected, the earlier tragedy is still fresh in everyone's minds. We took an enormous chance afterward, returning you to duty, and now this.”

“
This,
” Dominick repeated in a hushed whisper.

He had provided an understanding shoulder to a frightened girl, and for that, his life was ruined? His hands flexed atop the table, his knuckles itching for the satisfaction of a wall.

“You know the standard to which we are held.” The man's voice grew hushed with regret. “Really, there could be no other decision.”

Dominick's jaw tightened as a tangle of words pressed against the back of his teeth and lips, a denial so hot he felt certain its vehemence would burn the eyebrows and hair off the man standing before him. The degree of self-control he exerted in that moment in order to remain silent about the truth of that night almost sickened him.

He gritted out, “I suppose there could not be.”

Only one thing prevented him from speaking: his promise to Wolverton, a misguided attempt to assuage a dying old man's fears for his granddaughter's future and that of her fatherless child. The power of that vow extended even here, between two men who built their lives around secrecy.

His visitor circled round to stand beside the fire. “What are you thinking, Blackmer?”

Black thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. His hands curled into fists. He had worked so hard and so long to get his life back.

“I'm certain you can imagine.”

The man murmured, “Aren't you going to tell me it wasn't you who seduced Miss Bevington?” He reached out to touch the silver matchbox on the mantel. “That it was Lord Quinn?”

A
t hearing the name spoken, Dominick's pulse leapt. But just as quickly, his mind adjusted a few lopsided pieces of the puzzle that before hadn't quite fit, and he knew nothing had changed.

You're out, I'm afraid.
The words had already been said.

“Does everyone on the council know then?” he inquired darkly.

He nodded slowly. “You can thank Mrs. Brightmore for offering her confidential assessment.”

Dominick closed his eyes. “And yet the truth makes no difference.”

“I'm afraid it doesn't, because you see—”

“Wait, don't tell me.” He stood suddenly, grabbing the bottle by the neck and walking toward the liquor cabinet, where he lowered the bottle to the inlaid-leather top with a solid
thunk
. “It's because Quinn's father, the Duke of Lowther, is favored to be the next Prime Minister.”

His handler nodded and sank into the chair Dominick had just vacated. “If Wolverton survives…if we don't keep the matter utterly quiet and discreet, a war will break out among England's most powerful men. Other powerful men would join in and choose sides. Given our perpetual state of conflict with France and Spain, any breath of internal upheaval, any weakening of our ranks, must be squelched in the—”

“—best interests of the empire,” Dominick announced sardonically, with grand flourish of his hand. “And for those interests, I shall be sacrificed.”

How humbling to learn he was nothing more than a pawn in the games of more powerful men and that none of the missions he had accomplished, the valor he had displayed, or the sacrifices he had made for the last decade of his life had meant one damn thing.

He was out. A warm body to be installed into a necessary spot, simply because he'd had the misfortune to be holding Clarissa Bevington in his arms when everything had gone to hell.

He felt grievously slighted. Betrayed by very organization he'd sworn to live and even die for, if necessary. Just like that, the fire in his chest that had burned so bright, fueled by loyalty and pride, wavered…and flickered out, leaving nothing but a cold and vacant hole in its place.

Although he was only thirty-four years old, he suddenly felt very old. Insignificant and worst of all, powerless. There was no one to whom he could appeal for reconsideration, because no one of importance gave a whit whether he'd been treated fairly, only that the political foundations of England remained unshaken.

His handler shrugged. “Think of it as a reassignment.”

“But it's not a damn reassignment. It's not even a demotion. You said I'm out,” he snarled bitterly. “What in the bloody hell about this arrangement benefits me?”

Other than marrying the beautiful but painfully naïve Miss Bevington, who loved another man and even carried that man's child, one he'd now be expected to raise as his own? He might as well go out tonight and leap into the Thames for all the joy that future would bring him. He felt sick about all he had lost. He could not even think beyond the moment to imagine what tomorrow might bring. For so long, service to his country had been his purpose and salvation. Now he had nothing.

“I'll see if I can secure your pension from the Exchequer.”

“Oh, that's prime.” Dominick let out a bitter laugh. “My country's generosity, after my thirteen years of service and sacrifice, astounds.”

“Pardon me for daring to tread on the sanctity of your personal tragedy, but if you don't mind me saying, you're looking at all this in the wrong way.” His handler stared at him, his lips drawn into a solemn line.

“How then should I be looking at things?” Dominick answered angrily.

His companion answered quietly. “I understand that you take great pride in your service for England, but any other rational fellow would consider marriage to the Earl of Wolverton's granddaughter to be a magnificent gift.”

Dominick laughed bitterly. “I'm so very lucky.”

Twin nostrils flared their displeasure. “It's not as if Miss Bevington is a terrible match. For one thing, she's lovely, both inside and out, and I don't have to tell you that's rare. But more important, I'm certain she will come with a respectable marriage settlement. Perhaps not immediately, but at some time in the future when the turmoil has calmed down. You'll have married into one of the most respected families in England.”

As simple as it all sounded, spilling from his handler's lips, Dominick knew marriage wasn't that tidy. There were emotions involved. Expectations of love. But he had loved his once-in-a-lifetime love, and she—Tryphena—had nearly destroyed him. His soul was scarred. Incapable of the intimacy. He couldn't fathom the idea of marrying ever again.

Dominick gritted out, “I don't want marriage, or wealth or connections. I want my life back. The one I worked so hard to regain. Is that so difficult to understand?”

“No, it's not. But I hope, given time, you'll change your mind.”

Dominick narrowed his eyes. “If she's such a prize, why don't you marry her?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

He chuckled, without humor. “Because I wasn't fool enough to get caught in your situation. What's done is done. Given the sensitivity of the matter, no one else can be brought in. We can't take the chance someone will talk. It has to be you.”

“Hmmm. Clarissa Bevington. Mine, all mine. Lucky me.” Dominick steepled his fingers together and, with no small amount of dramatic flair, peered ceiling-ward as if greedily pondering the idea of a grand fortune, then dropped his arms to his side. “Not only have I lost everything, but her family will make me miserable for the rest of my life. They'll forever despise me, believing I betrayed their trust and seduced their angel.”

“They'll forgive in time.”

“I wouldn't,” he bit out. He imagined Quinn's aristocratic features then and thought how nice it would be to smash them with his fist. “Not if she was my daughter.”

“No, I don't think you would. One suggestion…”

“A suggestion?”

He shrugged. “Call it a parting order, if you prefer.”

Dominick's eyes narrowed. “What's that?”

“Get her away from London as soon as you can, away from the questions and scrutiny. And when I say scrutiny, I mean it is best that people don't have the opportunity to ask questions about you, other than what we will allow them to know. It's for your safety as well as hers and the child's. Live a quiet life, away from here for the first few years. By then any interest will have died down. Do you have somewhere you can go?”

“Perhaps.” Dominick paused in front of the fire. “I'll…find somewhere.”

Again the anger returned. This had never been part of his plan. He was supposed to be embarking on a thrilling mission tomorrow. Returning to stand shoulder to shoulder with his peers. Not shrinking into obscurity.

“Good.”

Dominick looked up at the ceiling, feeling caged, wishing it were the sky and that he could just fly away. “I don't have to go through with this, you know. I could just leave. Disappear forever and make a life for myself on the other side of the world.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared up at the plaster medallion on the ceiling. “I could just leave that chit to suffer her own consequences.”

“You could do that, indeed,” the man answered quietly. “But I don't believe you will.”

 “Who is that gentleman with Claxton and Raikes?” Daphne asked from the drawing room window, where she stood peering out through lace curtains.

“They've invited a friend to come along?” Clarissa started up from the chaise where she'd been sitting with Sophia.

Joining her sister, she peered down to the street where Claxton's black town carriage had arrived. Footmen secured the door, and the three men who had emerged proceeded up the walk toward the house. Claxton led the way, his lips drawn into a scowl that still proclaimed
blast you, Clarissa
, followed by Lord Raikes, who, while less stern of countenance, tugged at the knot of his neck cloth as if it strangled him, as if he'd just suffered through the most unpleasant ride of his life. A third man followed, tall, erect, and solemn. Clarissa's attention lingered on him momentarily, taking note of the figure he cut in his fashionable gray morning coat and the angular set of his jaw above a perfectly executed ivory silk cravat—

Her nerves already a tangle, she jerked the curtain closed. “I can't believe they've brought a stranger, someone I don't even know, to gawk through the ceremony. I thought it was understood that, given the circumstances, there would only be family present. Men can be just as terrible gossips as ladies and I would just like a small bit more time before news of my wedding is bandied around town.”

Sophia joined them at the window.

“Certainly they wouldn't have,” replied Daphne in a soothing tone, reaching an arm to squeeze her shoulders. “Perhaps it's the priest, and he's not yet put on his vestments.”

Numerous vases filled with flowers brightened the room, sent by well-wishers and more than one hopeful suitor who had attended her short-lived ball. Stacks of notes had arrived by courier, inquiring about Wolverton's health. By all accounts, London remained oblivious to the fact that in less than an hour's time, Clarissa would become Mrs. Kincraig.

The inevitability of scandal weighed like a stone on her chest. Clarissa paced and fretted, wringing her hands.

“What does it matter if they did bring someone? Everyone will know soon enough that I've married the most unlikely candidate, in questionable haste, and wonder about the reason why. Perhaps we ought to have just invited the entire
ton
and gotten the whole sordid announcement over with.”

Sophia straightened suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath. “Clarissa, that's no stranger. That's Mr. Kincraig.”

Clarissa froze, hearing the words, but then shook her head.

“That's not possible,” she replied. “Daphne and I know perfectly well what Mr. Kincraig looks like.”

She quickly returned to the window but caught only the briefest glimpse of wide shoulders and top hats as the men moved out of sight.

Which meant they were entering the house. She'd braced herself all morning for this moment, but still, the room spun around her.

If indeed the stranger was Mr. Kincraig, she hadn't even recognized her own husband-to-be! Didn't that only prove the folly of the situation at hand? This morning, after the physician had solemnly confirmed her condition, she'd resolved to marry him. She'd convinced herself that Mr. Kincraig had agreed to the arrangement because he would most certainly benefit from the union, both financially and through the social and political connections he could make by association with her family. Lots of people married for those very same reasons, without ever thinking about love.

But now she doubted everything. Was she only being selfish? Had she and her grandfather imprisoned a man who had so kindly, in her time of need, tried to protect and comfort her?

“I don't think I can marry Mr. Kincraig,” she announced quietly, her face and throat going hot and her palms humid. Suddenly the drawing room felt like a furnace.

 “I know you're afraid,” Sophia assured quietly, a look of pity in her eyes. “But it will all turn out for the best. It must, because, Clarissa, you don't have any other choice. When there's a baby, the father must take responsibility, and you must as well.”

She didn't want to punish the baby by denying it a father, but neither did she wish to punish Mr. Kincraig.

“I can't,” she said, this time a degree louder and more resolute. “I need to speak with Grandfather.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor and Lady Margaretta appeared, her expression strained. At seeing her, a strong pang struck Clarissa's heart. Her beautiful, loving mother had barely spoken to her since last night, nor had she offered a single word of comfort. No wonder. Clarissa had disappointed her terribly, destroying all the dreams Her Ladyship had held for her since her birth twenty years ago. She'd disappointed them all and shamed her beloved father's memory. Clarissa's only peace came from knowing her mother had found love again with the kind-hearted Mr. Birch, whom she liked very much. He had arrived at the house earlier that morning and had surely offered his support to her mother in his quiet way.

“Mr. Kincraig has arrived,” announced the marchioness, her voice tight with emotion.

So the stranger with Claxton and Raikes was indeed Mr. Kincraig. She tried to recall what she'd seen from the window. He'd appeared different, but why?

“We saw them arrive,” said Sophia, clasping her hands in front of her waist before throwing Clarissa a rueful glance.

To Clarissa's mortification, Daphne chose that moment to burst into tears.

“I can't believe this is happening,” she choked, pressing a hand to her face and fishing a handkerchief out of her pocket. Several fell out and fluttered to the carpet. Dearest Daphne. She must have anticipated a veritable river of tears and come prepared.

In the next moment, Clarissa forgot them both. An imposing shadow appeared behind her mother, a man whose features remained obscured by the half-light of the corridor. Her breath hovered in her throat, suspended in place, as the shadow emerged and transformed into a grim-featured gentleman in a dove gray morning coat and dark trousers. His black gaze swept the room touching momentarily on her sisters before focusing with excruciating exactness on her.

The Mr. Kincraig she'd known before had always kept to the shadows and the farthest corners of the room, rarely drawing undue attention to himself. He'd been reluctant to ever pay formal calls or involve himself in the polite conversations of a Belgravia drawing room. Yet in this moment he stood at the center of the room, the very picture of a gentleman.