Scandal And The Duchess (14 page)

“Aye,” Steven agreed quietly. He clinked his glass to Rose’s. “Thank you, Rosie.”

“My pleasure.” Rose sipped her champagne, but the enormity of the change in her life swept upon her all at once, and her knees buckled.

Steven caught her in alarm. “You all right?”

“Yes.” Rose hastily set down her glass and contented herself with holding on to Steven instead. “I beg your pardon—it’s rather overwhelming. I’ve been a long time alone, you see. Never had much family.”

“That’s all right, love,” Steven said. He gestured expansively to the others in the room. “Welcome to mine.”

Suddenly, Rose’s shaking evaporated. She saw her life before her, not narrow and barren, lined with people who condemned her, but one full of promise, in the company of those who held together against the world.

Steven’s kiss on her lips held more promise still, of a slightly more sinful kind. Rose pulled him close, and surrendered.

Steven lay beside Rose in the comfortable bed of their hotel suite the next afternoon, having made her Mrs. Captain Steven McBride a few hours ago.

He’d agreed to delay at Ainsley’s insistence, she backed by his four sisters-in-law, that poor Rose should at least have a decent dress to be married in. Steven gave in to the barrage of ladies, to his brothers’ and brothers-in-law’s amusement.

Somehow the women had managed to come up with a gown for Rose to wear when she and Steven wed at the bishop’s house the next morning. They’d chosen a light blue, which brought out the flush in Rose’s cheeks, the gold of her hair, and the aquamarine flecks in her green eyes. The fine cloth of the gown hugged her body perfectly, and Steven didn’t waste time wondering how they’d cobbled together something so quickly. She was beautiful, and that was all that mattered.

Rose repeated her vows without hesitation, though Steven couldn’t remember what the devil had come out of his own mouth. But soon the ring, which he’d borrowed from Ainsley until he could buy another, was on Rose’s finger. She was pronounced by the bishop—witnessed by his family and solicitor—to be Steven’s wife.

The journalists loved it, of course. This time, when Steven found them all waiting outside the hotel upon their return, he stopped and asked for their congratulations. Steven, with Rose smiling next to him, revealed that he’d fallen so hard for his perfect Scottish Rose that he’d begged her to marry him, and she’d done him the honor of accepting.

They were instantly surrounded by a sea of men and women in black, all bellowing questions, such as
What about the comte? Has he threatened to kill himself? Or Captain McBride?
But most of them looked happy, as though pleased to be able to report good news for a change.

They were equally happy to have the rest of the scandalous Mackenzies walk into the hotel past them—Ian, Cam, Mac, and Hart ignoring the journalists as they always did. Steven had no doubt the men and women of the press were busily making up things about the Mackenzie brothers and their wives, as they so enjoyed doing. All in all, a full day for London’s scribblers.

The hotel gave Steven another, larger suite, and the family helped Steven and Rose move into it.

Steven had the devil of a time getting them all to go after that. His leave lasted only until after Christmas, and he wanted every second with Rose.

But food and drink flowed, the Mackenzies and McBrides pleased to welcome the newest addition to their family. At last, after several hours of buoyant celebration, Sinclair and Cameron, perceptive men that they were, ushered the others out.

Now the pretty blue gown was in a puddle on the bedchamber’s floor, and Rose dozed next to Steven, her skin warm under his fingertips.

As though she felt his gaze, Rose opened her eyes, their green depths drawing him in.

She gave him a languid smile. “There’s something decadent about lying in bed together during the afternoon.”

“I like decadence,” Steven said, brushing the hair back from her face. “I always have.”

“Good,” Rose said decidedly. “If the newspapers are going to write about me, I want the fun of having done what they say I’ve done.”

Steven grinned down at her. “That’s my Rose.” He gave her a thorough kiss, one that had him hard and ready again.

“Speaking of decadence,” Rose said. “What shall I do with my cottage?”

Steven shrugged. “It’s yours. Collins has proved that. The trust means I can’t touch it. So you decide.”

“It’s very pretty,” Rose said. “I wouldn’t like to rush to sell it, but I don’t see the pair of us settling down in it anytime soon.” She caressed the back of his neck. “You promised to show me the world.”

“The world is what an army wife sees, every facet of it, the beautiful and the ugly. If you’re willing to see it with me.”

The sparkle in Rose’s eyes was eager. “I am. I don’t want to be left behind when you go.”

“And you won’t be.” Steven kissed the tip of her nose. “I won’t lie, Rosie. It’s a hard life. You now have the little jewel box to settle down in—a peaceful life with people to look after you.”

“I don’t want that,” Rose said quickly. “Not alone. I’d rather have hardship with you than ease without you.”

Steven’s heart was full. He’d make sure Rose was comfortable wherever she was with him, even if he had to bully his commanding officers to make it happen.

“We could let it,” Rose said. “The cottage I mean. To other couples. Have Mr. and Mrs. Winters stay on as caretakers, since they’ve done so well, if they’re willing. It could be a summer hideaway, or a bed and breakfast. Something of that sort.”

“Whatever you like,” Steven said. “Give you a nice little income. Collins can sort that out.”

“He’s very useful, is Mr. Collins,” Rose said. “I’m grateful to him.”

“He likes you.” Steven pulled her hand to him and kissed her palm. “I like you,” he added softly. Steven released her and rolled partway onto her. “I think you can tell.”

Rose flushed as pink as her name as his stiffness pressed her thigh. “My dear Captain McBride,” she said, her eyes shining. “I do believe you’re about to do something scandalous.”

“I hope so, Mrs. McBride.” Steven moved himself gently on top of her, looking down into her beautiful eyes—angel’s eyes—as he slid into her. “I hope so.”

His teasing dissolved in a rush of desire, and Rose’s smile faded. They came together in a thrust of passion, Steven clasping her wrists and pushing them down into the bed on either side of her.

Only one thought stood out in all the madness—in everything that had happened to him in the past few days.

“I love you, Rosie,” he said, his words a groan.

His angel smiled up at him, her body meeting his in perfect harmony. “I love you too, Steven. Always.”

“Damn right,” Steven said, and then words fled, no longer needed.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next Mackenzie historical romance

RULES FOR A PROPER GOVERNESS

Available October 2014 from Berkley Sensation

Winter 1885

His voice drew her, and Bertie wanted to hear more of it. She leaned forward in the balcony to watch the man standing upright and arrogant, one hand touching an open book on a table in front of him, the other gesturing as he made his argument.

The villains Bertie knew called the barrister Basher McBride, because Mr. McBride always got a conviction. He wore one of the silly wigs, but his face was square and handsome, and far younger than that of the judge who sat above him. A wilted nosegay reposed in a vase in front of the judge, both judge and flowers looking weary in the extreme.

The case had caught the attention of journalists up and down the country—the sensational murder of a lady in Surrey by one of her downstairs maids. The young woman in the dock, Ruthie, had been accused of stabbing her employer and making off with a hundred pounds’ worth of silver.

Bertie knew Ruthie hadn’t done it. The deed had been done by Jacko Small and his mistress, only they’d set up Ruthie to take the blame for it. Bertie had known, had heard Jacko’s plans, but did the police listen to the likes of Roberta Frasier? No.

Not that Bertie was in the habit of talking to constables most days. She stayed as far away from them as possible, and her dad and Jeffrey, Bertie’s self-styled beau, made sure she did. But she’d tried for Ruthie’s sake.

Hadn’t mattered. They’d arrested Ruthie anyway, and now Ruthie would get hanged for something she didn’t do.

The handsome Basher McBride, with his mesmerizing voice, was busy making the case that Ruthie
had
done it. Ruthie couldn’t afford a defense, so she was here on her own in the dock, thin and small for her age, a maid who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bertie could only clench her fists and pray for a miracle.

Mr. McBride, despite his dire statements, had a delicious Scots accent. His voice was deep and rich, rolling over the crowd like an intoxicating wave. Even the bored judge couldn’t take his eyes off him.

Mr. McBride had broad shoulders and a firm back, obvious even in the black robes. He was tall, dominating all in the room, the strength in his big, bare hands apparent. He looked as though he’d be more at home out on a Highland hillside, sword in hand as he fended off attackers. One glare from those gray eyes, and his attackers would be running for their lives.

His accent wasn’t so thick Bertie couldn’t understand it, but his
R
s
rolled pleasantly, and his vowels were long, especially the
U
s.

“If your lordship pleases,” Mr. McBride said, his voice warming Bertie again, “I would like to call Jacko Small back to the witness box.”

Bertie swallowed, nervous. Jacko had already given evidence that he’d found the body in the sitting room of the London house, then seen Ruthie down in the kitchen, crying, with blood on her apron. The silver had been gone, and no one had found it, so Ruthie must have hidden it somewhere, hadn’t she? The police had tried to get its location out of her, but of course Ruthie hadn’t known, as she hadn’t stolen the silver in the first place.

The judge sighed. “Is it
relevant
, Mr. McBride? This witness has already told us his version of events.”

“One or two more questions, your lordship,” Mr. McBride said without hurry. “You will understand my reasons in due time.”

In duuui time.
The vowel came out of his mouth with a round, full sound.

Jacko came back in, was reminded he was under oath, and faced Mr. McBride with all innocence on his face.

“Now, then Mr. Small.” Mr. McBride smiled pleasantly, but Bertie saw a gleam in his eyes that was a cross between anger and glee.

Now what was he up to?

“Mr. Small,” Mr. McBride said smoothly. “You say you opened the door of the sitting room to find the lady of the house on the floor, her dress covered in blood. You’d been asked to refill the coal bin on your return from your day out and had gone up there to do so.” Mr. McBride glanced down at the notes on his bench. “That day was the seventh of July. The middle of the afternoon, in the middle of summer. Quite the warmest day anyone could remember, the newspapers reported. A bit too warm for a fire, wouldn’t you say?”

Jacko blinked. “Well . . . I . . . the nights were still nippy. I remember that.”

“Yes, of course. Bloody English weather. Begging your pardon, your lordship.”

People tittered. The judge scowled. “Please get on with it, Mr. McBride.”

“You say in your statement that you saw quite a lot of blood,” Mr. McBride said, not missing a beat. “On the sofa, on the floor, smeared on the door panels and on the doorknob.”

“’Sright.” Jacko put his hand to his heart. “Gave me a turn, it did.”

“So you fled the room and went down to the kitchen, where you saw the accused wearing an apron stained with blood.
She
says she got the blood on her because she thought she’d help out the cook by stuffing the chickens for dinner. The chickens were still a bit bloody, and she wiped her hands on her apron. Correct?”

“It’s what she said, yeah.”

“Now, I need your help, Mr. Small. I must ask you a very important question, so think hard. Was there any blood smeared on the doorknob of the door to the back stairs?”

Jacko blinked again. He obviously hadn’t rehearsed this question. “Um. I don’t think so. I can’t be sure. Don’t remember. I was, you know, in a state.”

“But you remember distinctly the blood on the doorknob in the sitting room. You were quite poetic about it.”

More titters. Jacko looked flustered.

What the devil was Mr. McBride doing? Bertie’s gloved hand tightened on the railing. He was supposed to be proving Ruthie did it, not that Jacko lied. Which Jacko had, of course, but how did Mr. McBride know that?

Besides, it wasn’t his job to expose Jacko. Bertie knew from experience that courtrooms had procedures everyone followed to the letter. It was as if Mr. McBride had stepped onstage and started playing the wrong part.

“Was there blood on the doorknob to the back-stairs door?” Mr. McBride repeated, his deep voice growing stern.

“Um. Yeah,” Jacko said. “Yeah, now that I recall it, there was. Another big smudge, like in the sitting room. I had to touch it to open it. It were awful.” A few of the jury shifted in their seats in sympathy.

“Except there wasn’t,” Mr. McBride said.

“Eh?” Jacko started. “Whatcha mean?”

“The door to the back stairs, or the green baize door as it is also known, had a broken panel. It had been taken away, since it was a quiet day, to be mended. There was no door that day, not for you to open, nor for the maid to smear blood on.”

“Oh.” Jacko opened and closed his mouth. “Well, I don’t really remember, do I? I was, watcha call it . . . agitated.”

“Though you remember in exact detail the placement of every item and every bloodstain in the sitting room. The accused says she didn’t see you at all that day, and never knew about her employer’s death until the police arrived. I’m going to suggest you went nowhere near the kitchen and never saw the accused. I suggest you left the sitting room and the house entirely, returned later, found the police there, saw them taking away the accused and her bloody apron, and came up with the story about seeing her.”

Jacko looked worried now. “Yeah? And why’d I come back, if I’d killed the old bitch?”

The judge looked pained. Mr. McBride’s eyes took on a hard light. “You knew that if you’d disappeared entirely, you’d be screaming your guilt. I suggest you left to dispose of the silver and returned as though you’d been gone all day. And never did I suggest, Mr. Small, that you committed the murder.”

Rustling and muttering filled the courtroom. The judge looked annoyed. “Mr. McBride, do I have to remind you that the witness is not on trial?”

“No, he’s not,” Mr. McBride agreed. “Not yet.”

Another round of laughter. Jacko’s face was shiny with sweat, although it was nippy in here on this winter day.

“I am finished with the witness, your lordship. In my summing up, I will be putting the case that what we have here is not a conniving young woman who killed her employer, smeared blood all over the room, and then remained quietly in the kitchen with an apron covered with the same blood—and, I might add, no time to dispose of the missing silver. I am instead going to put forth my belief that another person must have had much better opportunity, and strength, to commit the crime, and that we are coming dangerously close to a miscarriage of justice. Perhaps your lordship would like to retire briefly and prepare for my outrageous statements.”

The judge growled as laughter began again. “Mr. McBride, I have warned you about your behavior in my courtroom before. This is not the theatre.”

Oh, but it was, Bertie thought. Only the play was real, and the curtain, final. Mr. McBride knew that too, she sensed, despite his jokes.

“You are, however, correct that I would like to recess briefly to gather my thoughts,” the judge said. “Bailiff, please see that Mr. Small does not leave.”

The judge rose, and everyone scrambled to their feet. The judge disappeared through the door into his inner sanctum, the journalists rushed away, and the rest of the watchers filed out, talking excitedly.

Bertie looked over the railing at Mr. McBride, who’d sat down, pushing his wig askew as he rubbed the sunshine-colored hair beneath it. The animation went out of his body as the courtroom emptied, as though he were a marionette whose strings had been cut.

He glanced around and up, but not at Bertie. Mr. McBride looked at no one and nothing.

Bertie was struck by how empty his face was. His eyes were a strange shade of gray, clear like a stormy morning. As Bertie watched, those eyes filled with a vast sadness, the likes of which Bertie had never seen before. His mouth moved a little, as though he whispered something, but Bertie couldn’t hear what he said.

Bertie remained fixed in place instead of nipping off for some ale, her hand on the gallery’s wooden railing. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man below, who’d changed so incredibly the moment his performance had finished.

Mr. McBride didn’t leave his bench until the judge returned, and the courtroom started up again. Then he got to his feet, life flowing back into his body, becoming the eloquent, arrogant man with the beautiful voice once more.

The judge signaled for him to begin. Mr. McBride summed up his case so charmingly that all hung on his words. The jury went out and returned very quickly with their verdict about Ruthie,
Not guilty.

Ruthie was free. Bertie had hoped for a miracle, and Mr. McBride had provided one.

***

After much hugging, Ruthie left Bertie and went home with her mum. Bertie found her dad and Jeffrey waiting for her outside the pub across the street. They were furious. Jacko was Jeffrey’s best mate, and Jacko had just been arrested for murder and taken away by the police.

“’E’s to blame,” Jeffrey said darkly, jerking his chin at Mr. McBride, who was walking out of the Old Bailey, dressed now in a normal suit and coat. Once again, Bertie noted how Mr. McBride had changed from a man who commanded a room to a man who looked tired of life.

The afternoon was cold, darkening with the coming winter night. Bertie rubbed her hands together in her too-thin gloves and suggested that her dad and Jeffrey take her into the pub and buy her a half.

“Not yet,” Bertie’s dad said. “Just teach ’im a lesson, Bertie. Go on now, girl.”

Girl,
when she was twenty-six years old. “Leave him alone,” she said. “He saved Ruthie.”

“But got Jacko arrested,” Jeffrey growled. “Whose side are you on?”

“Jacko
killed
the woman,” Bertie said. “He’s a villain; he always was. I say good on Ruthie.”

Jeffrey grabbed Bertie by the shoulder and pushed her into the shadows of the passage beside the pub. He wouldn’t hit her in public—he’d take her somewhere unseen to do that—but his hand clamped down hard. “Jacko is my best friend,” Jeffery said, his breath already heavy with gin. “You get over to that fiend of a Scottish barrister and fetch us a souvenir. We deserve it. The traitorous bastard was supposed to take Jacko’s part.”

Jeffrey’s grip hurt. Bertie knew if she protested too much, both Jeffrey and her dad would let her have it. But she couldn’t do this.

“That fiend of a Scottish barrister is very smart,” she argued. “He’ll catch me, then
I’ll
be in the cell with Jacko, waiting to go before the magistrate.”

Bertie’s dad leaned in, his breath already reeking as well. “You just do it, Roberta. You’re like a ghost—he’ll never know. And if he
does
see you, you know what to do. Now get out there, before I take my hand to you.”

They weren’t going to leave it. In their minds, Mr. McBride was the villain of the piece and deserved to be punished. If Bertie refused, her dad would drag her away and thrash her until she gave in. If Mr. McBride went home while Bertie was taking her beating, her dad would make her wait here every afternoon until Mr. McBride returned for another case.

Either way, Bertie was doing this. One way would simply be less painful than the other.

Bertie jerked free of Jeffrey’s hold. “All right,” she snapped. “I’ll do it. But you’d better be ready. He’s no fool.”

“Like I said, he’ll never see ya,” her dad said. “You’ve got the touch. Go on with you.”

Bertie stumbled when her dad pushed her between the shoulder blades, but she righted herself and squared her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she walked steadily toward where Mr. McBride stood waiting, his sad face and empty eyes focused on something far, far from the crowded streets of the City of London.

***

Sinclair McBride pulled his coat close against the icy wind and drew his hat down over his eyes.

Remember Sir Percival Montague, Daisy?
he asked the gray sky.
Well, I potted him good today. Old Monty was nearly rubbing his hands, wanting to pronounce sentence of death on that poor girl. Bloody imbecile. She was no more guilty than a newborn kitten.

The sky grew darker, rain coming with the night. So damnably cold here, not like the blistering heat of North Africa, where Sinclair had done his army time. His younger brother, Steven, was always trying to talk Sinclair into traveling with him—Spain, Egypt, back to Rome at least, where winters were balmy.