The Heart of a Scoundrel (The Heart of a Duke #6)(3)

“Eh? A shawl?” The older man fixed his gaze on the empty glass of brandy and then cast a longing glance over at the sideboard. The man was a drunkard. He wore his need for liquor upon his person the way a fat dowager doused herself in too fragrant perfume on a hot summer day. Relishing the other man’s inherent weakness, Edmund picked up the decanter and splashed several fingerfuls into the glass. That failing had cost the viscount a small fortune, property, and, inevitably, his daughter’s good standing in Society. He held the glass up in salute and took another swallow.

Lord Waters closed his eyes momentarily. Sweat rolled down his brow. This time, he did away with all hint of politeness and dragged the back of his sleeve across his head. “Why should I help you, Rutland? What are the benefits in me collecting anything for you? You already have enough.”

Edmund passed over his half-empty glass. “Ahh, because I’m prepared to forgive a portion of your debt each time you gather information about Miss Fairfax.” Waters hungrily eyed the glass and then greedily grasped at the offering.

Waters accepted the glass with trembling fingers. Liquid droplets splashed over the rim as he raised the tumbler to his lips and took a slow, savoring sip. “Why should I trust you?” he finally asked, eying Edmund with not nearly enough suspicion in his bleary eyes.

“The way I see it, Waters, you’ve little choice.”

Lord Waters downed the remaining contents of his glass and then eyed the amber droplets clinging to the rim. Then like the base animal he was, he licked the remaining liquid from the edge and set the snifter down. “You’ll forgive my debts, then.”

“Each time you help.” Though he suspected those debts would be promptly owed him once more when they sat down behind a faro table at Forbidden Pleasures.

The man scratched at his paunch. “Very well. The chit’s shawl.” He dusted his arm over his perspiring brow once again. “How do you expect me to collect this scrap?”

Edmund cracked his knuckles. “That is for you to worry about.” He strode around his desk and reclaimed his seat. “We’re done here,” he said, coolly dismissing the viscount. With an unholy delight in the other man’s discomposure, he pulled out the folio that contained Waters and a whole host of other gentleman in his debt, and proceeded to review the names, dismissing the fat viscount.

“But…”

Edmund slowly raised his gaze, daring the man to speak.

The man sketched a jerky bow and then all but sprinted from the room, knocking over the furniture in his haste to be free.

He sat back, looking down at a whole host of names of men who’d already realized that one could never truly be free of Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland—unless he wished it. And unfortunately for Miss Honoria Fairfax, she was what he wished for.

With a dark laugh that would have roused unholy terror in the unwitting young lady, he returned his attention to the men in his debt.





Chapter 2





Seated upon a gilt rope chair at the far back wall of Lady Delenworth’s ballroom, alongside her two dearest, oft-bickering friends, Miss Phoebe Barrett surveyed the dancers assembling for the latest set. Dubbed, the Scandalous Row, she, Miss Honoria Fairfax, and Lady Gillian Farendale, had found friendship early in the Season. Born to notorious families, who Society still spoke of with scandalized whispers, there had been something less lonely, something special in finding other scandalous sisters in this cold, heartless world. For the short time they’d known one another, they’d forged a bond stronger than most familial connections.

Phoebe proceeded to study the crowd with no little boredom and a great deal of tedium.

Then the orchestra struck up the chords of the next set.

As the daughter to one of the society’s most reprehensible letches, Phoebe really should crave that tedium. And yet…eying the twirling waltzers, she perched on the edge of the seat hungering for more.

Ignoring her friends’ prattling, Phoebe’s gaze snagged upon one couple. A tall gentleman angled the lady in his arms closer and whispered something into her ear that brought a blush to the young woman’s cheeks. Phoebe’s heart doubled its beat. A wistful sigh escaped her. To be the recipient of that—

Honoria stuck her hand out and waved it before Phoebe’s eyes, startling her into a soft gasp. “Hullo? Are you listening?” she asked with the same exasperation as a governess dealing with a recalcitrant charge.

Phoebe stole a final peak at the lord and lady and returned her attention to her far more predictable, far less exciting life. “Er, no I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”

“Phoebe,” Gillian wagged a finger. “You shan’t capture a single gentleman’s interest if you’re forever woolgathering.”

She frowned. “I’m not forever woolgathering,” she said a touch defensively. Simultaneously, her friends arched a single eyebrow. She sighed. “Well, perhaps a bit,” she conceded. “About the waltz.” And being the recipient of such a gentleman’s devotion.

Gillian gave her a smile of agreement. “I find it romantic, as well.” A twinkle lit her eyes. “Particularly if one has the right gentleman to—oomph,” she grunted as Honoria buried her elbow into her side. “There is nothing romantic about a waltz,” Honoria scolded. “It is only an opportunity for notorious scoundrels to place their hands—” Honoria continued over Gillian’s shocked gasp, “on a lady’s person. Cads all of them.” She jerked her chin. “Especially that one.”