Once a Scoundrel Page 4

  “You are not fine.” She took Faith’s hand and leveled her gaze on Stephen, her spine straightening in that imperial bearing of hers that would have intimidated the queen. “Is there a reason you’ve upset my daughter?”

  “It was nothing,” Faith interjected before Stephen could answer. A stab of guilt at dissembling with Mama shot through her— “We were only talking, about India.”

  “We were talking about Daniel Llewellyn,” Stephen corrected quietly.

  “I see.” Her mother’s shoulders eased down. The hard gaze she’d given him softened sympathetically, and she linked her arm through Faith’s. “Well, I think there has been enough talk for one evening. Why don’t you come back inside with me, Faith? You can enjoy the dancing.” She paused meaningfully, her gaze fixed on Stephen. “Dunwich, I am certain that you’d like to walk around the gardens for, say, twenty minutes or so?”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” he answered, the rake in him completely understanding the meaning behind her request.

  With his gaze lingering softly on them, her mother led her back toward the house, mercifully not asking any questions about why she was lingering in the shadows with Stephen. Thank goodness. Because Faith had no idea how she would have answered them.

  Chapter Three

  What the devil was she up to?

  Hours later, the ball having ended and the guests scattered, Stephen leaned on his forearms over the balustrade of the first-floor gallery above the front hall and watched through the dim shadows as Faith slinked silently toward the door. Still in her satin gown and slippers, her strawberry blonde hair pinned on top her head, she also wore a man’s greatcoat that was so long it nearly reached her ankles.

  A footman who was carrying down the last of the glasses from the billiards room hurried down the hall toward him. Stephen stopped him, then motioned for him to be quiet before gesturing downstairs.

  He pulled a coin from his pocket and held it up. Bribery worked just as well among household servants as it did among soldiers. “Any idea where Lady Faith is going?”

  The footman’s lips curled as if the coin were the easiest one he’d ever earned. “There’s a horse in the stables gone lame, sir,” he answered quietly. “Lady Faith often sneaks out at night to tend to the animals.”

  He smiled wryly. Of course she did. The Duchess of Strathmore had tried to instill in her children a sense of charitable duty in helping the sick and poor by encouraging them to volunteer in London hospitals and assist the village doctors at their estates at Hartsfield and Brambly. But Faith had carried her medical knowledge into the barns and applied all she’d learned to lambs, foals, chicks, puppies, kittens...While her sisters had been bandaging a wounded horse guard, Faith had bandaged his horse.

  Having a wife who wanted to be a leech drove Strathmore to distraction; having a daughter who wanted to work in the stables nearly undid the man.

  Stephen tossed the coin to the footman, who took it and hurried on his way, then leaned over the railing, to once more gaze down at her. A strong urge to follow her rose inside him. He wanted to talk to her again. There was so much more that needed to be said—

  But not tonight. She wasn’t ready yet.

  She’d agreed to try to forgive him and be friends again, and he let that be enough for now. Friends. His lips twisted at the irony. Yet it was a first step, and he had to choose carefully how to reveal the rest. But he had time, and India had taught him patience. After all, he’d already waited years; what were a few more days?

  With a glance over her shoulder, not seeing him watching from the shadows above, Faith slipped out the door.

  Tending a lame horse in a ball gown—that was just like her. Always unpredictable. Still a bit careless. Yet always a soft spot in her heart for poor creatures needing comfort.

  He only hoped she possessed enough softness in her heart to comfort the poor creature he’d become.

  Shoving away from the railing, he moved through the gallery and down the hall. The house was finally settling down, now with dawn only a few hours away. The guests who had come only for the dance had been spirited away by a long line of black carriages. Those who were remaining for the house party were tucked into bedrooms for the night, although not necessarily in their own rooms nor with their own spouses.

  To think that four years ago he would have been among them—Christ. If he’d wanted nothing more than meaningless swiving tonight, he could have easily had it. The hungry looks Viscountess Rathbourne had been sending him all evening practically shouted how amenable the woman was to doing just that. For God’s sake, she’d practically groped him in the garden when he’d stepped out for a moment of fresh air.

  But he didn’t want to go back to that life.

  Although society expected him to take up right where he left off as a rogue who had filled his time doing nothing more productive than drinking himself into oblivion and gambling away his fortune, he had other plans. Too much had changed for him to ever go back. He’d seen too much violence and destruction, experienced too much brutality and pain. It had taken the death of his best friend to make him realize that life was both astonishingly short and unbelievably precious. That he’d done a damnably fine job so far of wasting it. And that it was time to set everything to rights.

  He walked into the smoking room and found Strathmore, Chatham, and his father sitting in front of a fire which had already burned down to the coals, yet none of the three men were ready to turn in for the night. He helped himself to a glass of cognac from the side table, and all three sets of eyes flicked to him as he took a cigar from the humidor and lit it on the oil lamp. But their conversation over Prince Albert’s undue influence on the queen—and the queen’s undue influence on the prime minister—continued uninterrupted.

  “She’s having a child per year now,” Edward Westover, Duke of Strathmore, mused as he kicked his feet onto the fireplace fender yet somehow remained impossibly straight-spined in the crushed velvet chair. He was celebrating his fifty-fifth birthday this week, but the man still possessed a solid build maintained through hard work on his land.

  Thomas Matteson, Duke of Chatham and Stephen’s uncle, raised a brow. “You’d begrudge her a family?”

  “No.” Strathmore flicked the ash from his cigar. “Not as long as she doesn’t begrudge us her role as sovereign.”

  “The colonel’s stuck in his ways,” his father informed Stephen as he sank into the empty chair beside the three men. “He still can’t come to terms with the fact that the monarch married a German.”

  “God preserve us,” Strathmore muttered and finished off his brandy in a gasping swallow. The two old friends beside him chuckled.

  “The empire’s changing, Edward, whether we like it or not,” his father commented with a shake of his head. “Railways crossing the countryside, steam packets crossing the Channel...The old days are gone.”

  Chatham pointed his cigar at Stephen. “It’s in the hands of men like Dunwich now.”

  Strathmore groaned. “Then God truly preserve us!”

  Stephen’s lips curled into a wry smile.

  The duke pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room for more brandy, fetching the entire bottle.

  “So, Dunwich.” Strathmore shot him a glance as he refilled his drink, then topped off Chatham’s glass. “You’re back in England.” He set the bottle aside. “Is it for good this time?”

  “Yes.” Stephen studied the glowing tip of his cigar. “I’ve resigned my commission.”

  Strathmore slid a not-so-subtle glance at the general. “Your idea or your father’s?”

  “Mine.” He clamped the cigar between his teeth and mumbled around it, “If the general had his way, I’d be in the cavalry for the next twenty years.”

  All four men knew that was only a slight exaggeration.

  “Military service does a man good,” his father defended himself.

  “Indeed,” Chatham seconded. “The hardest and best years of my life were spent fighting
in Spain.”

  “Where you also chased Spanish flamenco dancers,” Strathmore reminded him.

  “And where we had to repeatedly rescue you from Spanish fathers and husbands,” Grey added.

  Chatham laughed, then he cleared his throat and pinned Stephen with a look. “No need to tell your aunt about any of that.”

  “Or my wife,” Strathmore agreed.

  “Or your mother,” his father finished.

  Stephen chuckled and took a sip of cognac. On that, his lips were sealed. Three stronger and more independent-minded women he’d never met than the two duchesses and his mother.

  Except perhaps for Faith.

  “What are your plans, then?” Strathmore pressed. “What will you do to occupy yourself?”

  “I’m a land-owning peer,” he reminded them as unassumingly as possible of the position he was born into, although he didn’t blame them for forgetting. He’d only just come into his majority when he enlisted, and they’d known him before as nothing more than a reckless man-boy who lived his life on the edge of expulsion from university and under constant threat of being shot by a jealous husband. He’d certainly never given them cause to think of him as a responsible man. That was just another one of the many things he planned to change. “Parliament will take up half the year, and Elmhurst Park will occupy the rest.” He wasn’t fond of the estate. The old house was too silent for comfort, too still. But he had plans to change that, as well. “I’ll have more than enough responsibility to fill my time.”

  Strathmore returned to his chair. His dark eyes fixed on Stephen. “I’ve heard rumors about how you’ve been spending your time.”

  Stephen held his gaze. He’d known this fight was coming, which was one of the reasons he’d sought out the three men out tonight. The military had taught him that it was always better to be the one dictating the terms of battle. “You mean that nonsense about Mary Halstead.”

  Damn those rumors. And damn those old busybody hens who had nothing better to do than spread nasty untruths about the most vulnerable of people.

  “She had to leave India unexpectedly,” he explained, unwilling to go into more detail than that, but he was certain the three men knew why. “She had nowhere to go, so I let her stay in one of the cottages at Elmhurst. She’ll be moved by next month.” If his plans for his visit here went as he hoped.

  Strathmore silently raised his glass to take a sip, yet his expression told Stephen that he didn’t believe him.

  But Stephen didn’t argue further, knowing that any protest would only add toward his guilt. He was careful not to let any emotion show in front of the man who had raised him as if he were his own son and the two dukes who had been like second fathers to him. They were worried about him, but the devil take their interference.

  “You should be careful, Stephen,” his father put in, concern in his voice. “A woman in Miss Halstead’s position—”

  “Mrs. Halstead,” he corrected. A bald-faced lie. She wasn’t married, but he’d be damned if he let anyone criticize her any more than necessary.

  “A woman in her position,” the general tried again, “especially if she has a son to raise, might see a wealthy peer as a path to fortune. She might do anything to gain your favor.”

  “Gentlemen, I appreciate your concern.” Another lie. While they might have been worried, it sure as hell felt like meddling, and he damned well didn’t appreciate it. “But I assure you that Mrs. Halstead doesn’t view me as a path to anything.”

  Except to her ruin. He swallowed down half his cognac, but all the brandy in the world wouldn’t erase his guilt.

  “The rumors have it otherwise,” Chatham drawled.

  “I’m certain they do.” He shoved himself out of the chair to relight his cigar. “The gossips will just have to be disappointed that they aren’t true.”

  “Not that the truth will keep any of those old hens away from a juicy bit of on dit,” Strathmore put in. “The more unbelievable and outlandish, the better, as far as they’re concerned. They’d rather ruin you than see you vindicated.”

  “And in the meantime you might want to consider preventing more rumors,” Chatham suggested. “Avoid gambling and drinking for a while, ease back into society—”

  “Stay away from loose women,” his father interjected with a pointed glance at him.

  He paused in mid-puff to move his gaze between the three men. All his antics from before the army had already damned him in their eyes, but they were willing to give him a second chance. Only time would prove his worth to them.

  “I fully intend to do just that,” he affirmed solemnly, and meant every word.

  His comment seemed to mollify the men’s concerns, because he saw the shoulders of each relax as they sat back deeper into their chairs. Thank God. He admired and appreciated each of them, but having his father’s expectations to live up to was bad enough. Throw in the two dukes...Good Lord. Could anyone wonder why he’d joined the army to escape to India, to finally be able to prove himself on his own merits?

  But India had done far more than just that. He hadn’t lied to Faith. He wasn’t the same man now that he was when he enlisted. Long stretches of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror and fury, the struggle to find enough resolve to care about civilians who might turn in a heartbeat and attempt to kill him, the cold unfamiliarity of everything around him...giving the order to charge that resulted in the death of his best friend. No one could go through that and return the same, nor could Stephen shrug off the responsibilities fate had given him as a result of that.

  “Now that you’re back in England,” Chatham commented, tossing his cigar stub into the fire, “any plans to follow your father into the War Office?”

  Stephen shook his head. He’d seen more than enough of the military for one lifetime. “I’m the last person the War Office would want among their ranks,” he half-joked, returning to his chair. “Besides, I’d be nothing more than a poor imitation of the general.”

  His father smiled at the soft compliment, although he deserved far more praise than that. General Nathaniel Grey was one of the best men the War Office had ever produced, and his name was legendary, even among the soldiers in India. Which was why Stephen had enlisted secretly. The last thing he needed was for the general’s shadow to fall over him all the way to Calcutta. It had taken a year for his relationship to the general to be revealed inside his regiment, but by then, he’d already proven himself to his men and to the other officers.

  “Any plans to find a wife?” Strathmore asked.

  “Good God, colonel!” Chatham looked aghast. “The man survived India. Are you trying to kill him off now?”

  “Slowly and painfully, too,” his father mumbled. Then he sent him a pointed glance. “Your mother doesn’t need to know anything about this entire conversation.”

  Stephen grinned.

  “Marriage isn’t such a bad idea,” Strathmore conceded. “If you’re serious about taking a leadership position in parliament and an active role in overseeing your properties, then a wife would be helpful.”

  More than helpful. A wife might just save him.

  He stared into his glass as he slowly stirred the brandy and admitted quietly, “Actually, I’ve been considering doing exactly that.”

  All three men gaped at him with open surprise.

  “Don’t look so stunned, gentlemen.” Christ. They were staring at him as if he’d just admitted to stealing the crown jewels. “I’m twenty-six.” With a title and more land than he knew what to do with, more money in the bank than he could count, a need for an heir...“It’s time I focused on the marquessate.”

  More than that, it was time he focused on securing that which was most important to him. On finding a purpose. A true future. Finally healing all the misery he’d caused. He wouldn’t stop until he had everything he wanted, including the one thing a rogue like him was never supposed to have.

  He wanted Faith.

  Chapter Four

  Benea
th the afternoon sunshine, Faith removed her bonnet and dangled it by its ties at her side as she ambled down the lane.

  Oh, how glad she was that she’d decided to go for a walk! This was so much better than staying inside the house with the ladies, doing needlework or watercolors. She also didn’t think she’d be able to tolerate the fresh gossip that was certain to arise among them, especially with the men spending the day away fishing.

  She deeply breathed in the fresh air and smiled at the birds chirping from the trees lining the short stone wall. Ah, peace and quiet. A God send. Especially after last night.

  She thought she’d been prepared to see Stephen again. After four years, she thought her silly heart had learned its lesson and hardened just enough to be immune to his grins and charms. That having discovered the hard way the dangers of losing one’s heart to the wrong man she would know better than to put herself into harm’s way again with that smooth-tongued devil.

  Apparently not. Because he was all she’d been able to think about during the long sleepless night she spent pacing in her bedroom. How he’d said he’d missed her. How he’d asked her to forgive him. How he wanted to friends again.

  Friends? Ha! She’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d tried to kiss her, and it certainly wasn’t friendship that lingered there.

  He’d said he’d changed, but had he really? Oh, he’d grown fully into manhood. That much was clear with every glance. It was also tantalizingly obvious beneath her hands when they’d rested against the hard muscles of his shoulders. Yet the changes weren’t only physical. A sobriety lingered in him that hadn’t been there before.

  But the same empty flattery and compliments, the same taking of convenient kisses...Had he truly changed from the self-centered young man he’d been, when he’d cared for no one and nothing but his own selfish desires? If she let him back into her heart and he hadn’t changed, how would she ever recover if he wounded her again? He’d sliced open her heart the first time. A second might shatter it irreparably.