Wicked Under the Covers Read online

  Mr. Brawley’s handsome face lost some of its lazy charm as his jaw tightened. “You have not even heard my proposal.”

  “Even if I had, I would still reject it.” She squinted against the sun, wishing the carriage were closer.

  “Revenge.” He reached out and steadied her when she stumbled. “You desire it. You do not strike me as a lady who sits idle while Standish and his lover make you the laughingstock of the season. I could help you gain your revenge over them.”

  She hesitated for a moment. Mr. Brawley’s knowledge of her affair with Lord Standish seemed to extend beyond the circulating rumors. A flash of hot shame whipped through her, followed by righteous anger that a complete stranger knew something so intimate about her. She needed no one’s assistance, especially not that of a rude, arrogant pirate! “No.”

  Irritation flashed in his eyes. He was not a gentleman used to rejection. “The park was a poor choice to approach you, I see that now.”

  “It matters not—”

  He cut her off with a gesture. “No, do not refuse me. You will have an ally, Fayre. Think over what I offer you. We can meet later.” He scowled at a passing couple. “Someplace with fewer people.”

  “And Mr. Brawley, what do you want from me if I decide to accept your gracious offer?”

  “I need a lady of distinction.” He dismissed the confession with a shake of his hand as if he had said too much. “We can talk about the details later. Just think about how I might help you.” He saw the doubt in her expression. “Despite your first impression of me, I can promise you that what I want from you is not criminal.”

  As they approached the carriage, she risked a glance in his direction. How had he guessed that she intended to pay Standish and Lady Hipgrave back for their humiliation? Not even her family or friends suspected. At what price could she gain his cooperation or his silence? She dared not contemplate what a gentleman like Mr. Brawley wanted from her. Most likely she did not want to know. “I doubt I will change my mind on this.”

  She left him standing in the field and walked alone the remaining distance to her friends with a cheerful smile pasted on her face.

  Maccus watched Lord Yemant help Lady Fayre into the carriage. Once she settled in her seat, she cast a quick wary glance his way. Lady Fayre stared at him as if she were trying to decide if he was a forbidden temptation or the devil himself. Maccus could have told her that he was both.

  4

  Eight days had passed since Mr. Brawley had dragged her away from her friend and made his outrageous offer. She did not need his assistance with Standish and Lady Hipgrave. The couple was her problem. She would deal with them eventually. For now, she was determined to enjoy London. Sitting at her dressing table, Fayre tilted her head to the side and admired the image staring back at her.

  “Amelie, as always you have done magnificent work,” she said, pleased by how her maid had swept up her waist-length hair and twisted it into a complicated arrangement of braids and disheveled curls.

  “Hair like yours makes my work easy enough,” the maid said cheerfully, making minute adjustments to her handiwork. “I once worked for an older lady who had hair thin as my granddad. Now, she was always wanting fancy curls in her hair but they just wouldn’t take. All that crimping had me fretting that she would be bald by season’s end.”

  Fayre laughed, wondering how many employers Amelie had served before she had been hired into the Solitea household. She could not be older than sixteen. “So was your mistress bald by the end of the season?”

  “Looked like a freshly hatched chick, I tell you. It was turbans and plumes for her the following season,” Amelie said, stepping away to retrieve the jewelry case on the table.

  The vibrant hue of Fayre’s hair needed little adornment; however, Fayre had a weakness for jewelry that her father seemed happy to indulge. This evening Amelie had looped gold roping around the braiding at the back, providing a brilliant accent for the thick cascade of curls. Fayre turned away from the mirror, giving her maid the opportunity to place a small tiara made of emeralds, diamonds, and tiny pearls on her head.

  “You look like a queen, my lady.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Fayre muttered, taking the tiara’s matching choker out of the case. She had no aspirations to marry into the royal family. “I will finish up here, Amelie. Why do you not go down to the kitchen and have your supper?”

  “Are you sure, my lady? I don’t mind staying.”

  Amelie was so young and eager to please her. She was a joy in comparison to her predecessor. Fayre had not shed any tears over her former maid’s departure. The woman had been a weary, morose creature who had a nasty habit of stabbing errant pins into Fayre’s tender flesh at each opportunity. Fayre gave Amelie a slight smile. “You have done all the work. All I have to do is accept the compliments. Go on, and enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Her smile faded at the sound of the door closing behind Amelie. Fayre picked out the pair of gold armlets from the leather jewelry case and slipped them on to her upper arms. She stood and smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt. A glimpse of her face had her leaning into the mirror for a closer look. Fayre pinched her cheeks, adding to their natural coloring. The hint of fear in her green eyes shamed her.

  “You can do this, Fayre,” she said to her image, thinking of the evening ahead of her. The stares and snide comments cut into her spirit more than she was willing to admit. “You are too strong to let Standish and his haughty whore win.”

  Fayre whirled away from the mirror, prepared to battle the ton.

  “Are you certain?” Maccus poured his visitor a generous glass of brandy and handed it to him. He poured nothing for himself. His father had demonstrated in his tender years how spirits weakened a man. Long ago Maccus had vowed not to touch the stuff.

  “You pay me too well, Brawley, not to strive for accuracy,” Mr. Cabot Dossett said dryly. “It took some effort, but I located and spoke to a relative of the man you hired me to find.”

  Fierce elation surged through Maccus. “I want to meet him.”

  “No promises, but if the price is to his liking, he might be willing to meet with you.” Dossett swallowed a healthy portion of his brandy.

  Lady Fayre had been entirely too close to the truth that afternoon in the park when she accused him of being a member of the criminal class. How would she react if she knew Maccus had once made a lucrative living as a smuggler? He rarely spoke of his former life, but he had been good at his trade. So good that his enemies had ambushed him and his crew one night on a lone stretch of beach, and left him for dead.

  “I realize I am just the hired help, but we also share a common history. Are you sure you want to go digging in the past?” his friend asked, bringing Maccus back to the present.

  Dossett was a good man. Their friendship extended into their youth when they were too green and poor to refuse the sort of jobs that were likely to get a man hanged if he was caught. Though they had taken different paths, by some miracle both of them had pulled themselves out of the muck. Dossett worked as a Bow Street runner now. He was discreet, thorough, and always willing to do favors for an old friend.

  “I am just seeking answers to some old questions,” Maccus replied evenly. “I have no intention of risking what I have built here in London.”

  Although he had told Fayre the truth when he said that he required her assistance in gaining entrée into the polished world of the ton, he needed no one’s help in making him rich. Maccus was already rich, and his business prospects were improving with each passing year. While some people were gifted in the arts, he had an uncanny talent for making risky ventures pay off. Playing at the Exchange had seemed a sensible choice for a man like him to channel his luck and intelligence.

  Dossett gave him a considering look. “I cannot talk you out of this?”

  “No, so let us focus on something more interesting.” Dossett could set up the meeting, but his friend had no part to play after Maccus had gained the information he sought. “Speaking of more pleasurable subjects, what are Lady Fayre Carlisle’s plans for this evening?”

  Accepting that he could not alter Maccus’s plotted course, Dossett idly crossed his ankles and concentrated on new business. “I spoke to one of the servants personally. The family will be attending the theater this evening.”

  Satisfaction gleamed in Maccus’s expression. For more than a week, Lady Fayre had remained out of reach. He had promised to give her time to consider his offer, but his patience waned with each passing day of silence. While he focused on the demands of his business interests, Lady Fayre lingered in his mind. By hiring Dossett, he was aware of her activities since they had parted. If she was troubled by the talk stirred up by Standish, she was hiding it well. Maccus could tick off on his fingers the various balls, lectures, and card parties she had attended. It was a world of breeding and privilege she lived in, and Maccus, like most people, was not invited to participate. His money could buy his way in, but it did not make him one of them. With Lady Fayre’s cooperation he intended to change all that.

  “Should I have someone follow the family this evening?” Dossett asked, interrupting Maccus’s silent musings.

  “No. The information you have provided is adequate for my needs. I will contact you if I require your services again,” Maccus assured him.

  “Forgive me for prying again, Mac, but I’m curious. The Duke of Solitea is not a man to be trifled with. If he learns of your interest in his family—”

  “He won’t,” Maccus snapped. “Besides, I am not interested in His Grace.” Now, trifling with the daughter was a different matter.

  “I recognize that look in your eyes, Mac. It means trouble.”

  “You are mistaken, Cabot. I live the life of an honest man thes
e days. Each night when I lay my head upon my pillow, I sleep the virtuous sleep of the angels.”

  “See that you keep doing so.” Grimacing at his tone, his friend set down his glass of brandy. Dossett leaned forward and rested his elbows on his legs. He met Maccus’s gaze unflinchingly. “Look, you and I have come a long way since the cold, wet nights of fleeing riding officers; a time when a few pints of beer and some food to fill our bellies was more important than the plate on which it was served.”

  “Are we reminiscing about the good ol’ days, Cabot, or does this lecture have a point?” Maccus asked, settling back into his chair to get comfortable.

  “Right. Direct. It was one of the things I like about you.” Dossett stood and retrieved his hat from the table. “You have shed the old ways and have made something of yourself, Mac. Just don’t fool yourself into thinking that your new life isn’t filled with dangers. The villains in the world you are poking your ambitious fingers into might wear clean linen and have silver buckles on their shoes; nevertheless, they can still aim a pistol at your blackguard heart or pierce your spleen with a cutlass.”

  “You worry too much, Cabot. Silver buckles do not gain my trust. Hell, I trust no one,” Maccus admitted, eyeing his friend speculatively, “not even you. I live a quieter life now. All I want is to conduct a little business and, mayhap, find some sweet-smelling vixen who could entertain me in her bed.”

  Dossett remained unconvinced. No one ever claimed he was a dim-witted man. “And Solitea’s daughter?”

  “Alas, business.” If, however, Lady Fayre could not fight her attraction to him and ended up in his bed, Maccus was magnanimous and willing to indulge her. “Lord Yemant introduced us.”

  “If I have overstepped the bounds of our friendship, please accept my sincere apologies. My authority in London is limited, Mac. If you make enemies here, there is little I can do to save you,” Dossett warned.

  “I will not require rescuing,” Maccus replied lightly, though his friend’s concern touched him. The man was probably the only one he knew who thought his hide was worth saving. “I shall be the consummate gentleman.” He gave Dossett a beatific smile.

  Dossett nodded and headed for the door. “Then I will say no more about it.” Pausing at the threshold, he added, “I forgot to mention. Trevor is also in London. Word from a few of my sources is that he is searching for you. I leave it up to you how easily you want to be found.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Until later, my friend.”

  Silently efficient, his manservant, Hobbs, appeared in the doorway and escorted Dossett to the front hall.

  Alone, Maccus stared down at his hands in contemplation. So Trevor was in town. Maccus wearily scrubbed his face with his right hand. He had not seen his half brother in five years. He somehow doubted Trevor’s unexpected arrival was precipitated by a longing to renew family ties. More likely the boy had trouble at his heels, and he was leading the past straight to Maccus’s door.

  “Very well, sister mine,” Tem said into her ear as he led Fayre away from their mother.

  If Her Grace was aware of their departure, she gave no sign of it as she chatted with a longtime friend. He bowed his head, giving two sisters an engaging grin. The young ladies giggled as Fayre and Tem passed them.

  “We are alone, or as much as one can be in public. What has you so stirred up this evening? You fidgeted in your seat the entire way to the theater.”

  Fayre discreetly searched the lobby for familiar faces. “Nothing.”

  Tem snorted. “Rot! The merciless kicks you delivered to my shins and calves on the drive here have left me mottled with bruises.”

  “Stop acting like an infant,” she scolded, content to follow her brother’s lead through the perilous path of patrons. Some looked bored, others curious, and a few others Fayre would have categorized as malicious. She refused to show weakness to any of them. Cocking her head playfully, she said, “You deserve worse for your mischief. Besides, I was simply gaining your attention.”

  “You have it now, though a polite cough would have sufficed,” Tem muttered irritably. Recalling her accusation, he added, “Worse? For what? I have done nothing.”

  “You called on Miss Mableward on my behalf.”

  “Oh. Right.” Having no defense for his actions, he attacked. “Silly chit was supposed to keep silent about that part.”

  Fayre’s eyes flared with her temper. “What did you expect? Callie is my friend. We share secrets, not keep them from each other.”

  Tem frowned. “I expected the amiable Miss Mableward to keep her bloody mouth shut about our business. What does a man have to do when sharing confidences with a woman? Swear a blood oath?”

  It was just like Tem to blame Callie and women in general for his error. “No, Fayne, just stop sticking your nose into my concerns.”

  “Fayne,” he growled. “I despise that asinine name. What the devil was Mother thinking when she chose it?”

  “She was thinking you were trying to change the subject,” Fayre replied sweetly. “And you are failing miserably, brother.”

  “Good God, Fayre, this is hardly the moment to discuss the family’s dirty laundry.”

  Fayre sighed. “Agreed. But this nasty business is mine to handle, Tem. Having you meddle makes me feel—” She looked away, floundering for the proper word.

  Rapidly losing his patience, her brother pressed, “Feel what? That you are not alone? That you are loved by your family?”

  She felt the sting of tears. “No, Tem. Shame,” Fayre softly confessed, unable to say more. She was certain a grand majority of the ton thought she ought to feel ashamed for allowing Standish to seduce her. They were bound to be disappointed. She felt no shame for loving Standish; only that he had been unworthy and she had been too blinded by her feelings to see the truth.

  Taken aback by the sheen of tears glistening in her green gaze, Tem dragged her to the nearest corner and used his body to shield her from view of the curious. “Here now,” he crooned, pressing a handkerchief into her hands. “There will be none of that in my presence.”

  Tem seemed so unsettled Fayre discovered she could laugh after all. “Oh, brother, you should see your face.” The urge to cry faded with her laughter. She dabbed at the corner of her eyes out of habit, rather than of necessity. “If I had known I could strike terror in your heart just by turning on the waterworks, I would have done this years ago.”

  “I have no doubt, you red-haired imp,” he mused, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “It is just that you cry so rarely. For that alone, I want to hunt Standish down and murder him with my bare hands.”

  “A woman’s tears are a ludicrous reason to kill a man.” She stuffed the handkerchief into her reticule. “Just keep your promise and leave Standish alone.”

  “Why the tether, Fayre?” he asked, his frustration evident in his eyes. “The man betrayed you. You said that you felt shame. What is wrong with you, girl? Are you not angry? Where is your spirit? Do you not want revenge?”

  “Of course,” she hissed, the calm façade she wore eroded. “Standish will pay for his treachery.”

  “When?”

  Fayre remained silent.

  Tem swore under his breath. “Despite what he has done, you still love the bastard. Is that why you are protecting him?”

  “No! I do not love Standish. What feelings I had for him died that night when I discovered him with Lady Hipgrave. You just are not in possession of all the details.”

  “Then talk to me, Fayre. If you are too softhearted to strike down your lover, then use me as your sword of vengeance.” He gripped both her hands. “Take me into your gentle hands, point me in Standish’s direction, and I will smite him in half.”

  “A tempting offer, Tem. Honestly.” She took his left hand and raised it to her cheek. “I would not risk your life for revenge. Standish thinks he has gotten away unpunished—”

  “He has,” Tem said bluntly.

  “Only for the moment,” she countered, irritated to have the truth waved in her face. “Good fortune has a way of reversing itself.”

  Tem released her hands and crossed his arms over his chest. He gave her a considering stare. “What are you up to, dear sister?”