London's Most Wanted Rake Read online

  ‘I did ask,’ Channing snapped. ‘I asked you to come away with me.’ He rose to his feet and began to pace. A storm was rising between them, electric and swift. Now was the time for discretion and care, but caution seemed to elude him.

  He was not alone. Alina was on her feet, facing him with fiery eyes. ‘You asked me to choose between bigamy and adultery by coming with you. Both fine lifestyle choices, don’t you think?’

  He would not stand for that. She would not turn his heartfelt offer into something sordid. ‘Don’t preach principles at me when you chose to stay for money and wealth. Remember, I saw you draped in your jewels and silks and you looked right through me.’ The old anger, the old hurt was breaking free inside.

  ‘Bastard!’ Alina hurled her glass against the fireplace. It smashed, the sound of the crystal shattering loud in the quiet of the library. Her face was a mask of fury. ‘Is that what you thought? I stayed for money?’ She was moving towards the console with the decanter, sweeping up anything in her path. She had a vase in one hand. ‘Alina!’ Channing raced towards her, slowed momentarily by the sofa, her words starting to translate into meaning, but he needed more.

  She threw the vase. He ducked and it crashed against a table. Channing charged on. ‘Alina, stop!’ But she was in full rage. She reached for a tumbler and threw, then another. Channing grabbed up a delicate Louis XV chair to use as a shield and counted. There were only six glasses. She couldn’t hold him off for ever.

  The sixth shattered against his chair shield and he tossed the piece of furniture aside. He was five feet from her when she grabbed the decanter. ‘I’ll throw it, I swear I will!’

  ‘I know you will.’ Then she’d be out of missiles, but Channing didn’t relish smelling like a drunk the rest of the night, nor did he relish the idea of the damage the leaded crystal decanter could do to him. It would hurt. Channing held his hands out to his sides in a gesture of openness. ‘Alina, please, put the decanter down and talk to me.’ He kept his tone even. Angry women were an occupational hazard in the League. He’d dealt with his fair share.

  ‘You thought I chose him!’ she railed. ‘That makes you a bastard and a stupid one at that.’

  Channing stepped closer. Alina did not hesitate. Only the weight of the half-filled decanter gave Channing any warning. He leapt for her then, pinning her to the console, his hand closing around hers on the neck of the decanter.

  ‘No!’ Alina cried, but she was no match for his strength.

  He felt her grip go slack, felt the decanter come under his control even as he saw the tears start to form in her eyes. His voice was quiet when he spoke. ‘Tell me about Paris, about the park that day.’

  He stepped back from her, giving her space and trust, but his eyes watched her intently. She started with simple words and he drank them up, piecing the story together. ‘The comte knew. He knew there was an Englishman who had been at Fontainebleau. Someone had remarked on it to him. He did not know it was you, but he guessed that my affections might be engaged to some degree and he feared, as he always did, that I would steal away if given the chance.’

  To protect you. Channing guided her back to the sofa. The words made him sick. To think he’d thought she’d played him false all these years, to think the worst of her. ‘And what else?’ he prompted.

  ‘He’d brought me gifts from Italy: silks, jewels. He made me wear them, to show everyone I was his.’

  ‘But that was not all,’ Channing urged. She was holding something back. The man who had locked his wife in her room, taken her clothes and branded her skin, would not stop with a show of fine clothes and jewels.

  ‘That I was only his, that only he had the right.’ Alina pressed her eyes shut. ‘Please don’t make me tell you more.’

  Channing gripped her hand. Remorse, anger and a host of emotions that refused to separate themselves coursed through him. His voice was low and insistent. ‘Did you suffer for me?’ God, he hoped not. But he thought of the brand on her skin and doubted there was any hope in that regard.

  ‘He’d found the letters, you see. The ones you’d given me from Voltaire,’ Alina said. The story was horrifying. The comte had stormed into her room, demanded she stand before him naked, while the room was searched for any item the comte had not personally given to her. Clothes had been taken, books had been seized, Voltaire included, and burned on the floor of her room in front of her while she’d shivered and his henchmen had stared. Then the physician had come to assure the comte there had been no consequences of any potential infidelity. There would not have been. He’d been chivalrous in those days and followed the lessons of his father. But his father had not met the comte.

  The following day the comte had put her on display in the park in her satins and jewels. ‘I had nothing left, but what he saw fit to give me,’ Alina murmured. ‘He’d promised me he would not seek out the Englishman if I performed well, dutifully.’

  Channing’s anger brimmed. ‘I made it more difficult for you by showing up.’ He should have listened to Henri and stayed away. He shook his head. ‘I should have stormed the castle for you. I should have taken you away from Paris.’ Self-loathing swamped him.

  ‘And been killed or worse?’ Alina flicked a sharp blue glance in his direction. ‘The comte’s cruelty and power knew no bounds. He would not have hesitated to have had you castrated if he had any suspicions. I could not have watched that.’

  No, but she could allow herself to suffer for him, Channing thought cuttingly. ‘Why did you never tell me? When you returned to England?’ But the words died on his lips before he could finish the thought. He knew why. He hadn’t exactly been a picture of welcoming hospitality. There’d been no opening, just games and bitterness between them.

  Alina shook her head. ‘It’s all in the past. But I don’t know if we can move beyond it.’ Channing knew what she meant. The events had shaped them, how they viewed the world and the choices they’d made since then. ‘I will never be an asset to you, Channing. Nice English sons of earls don’t associate with scandalous French countesses.’

  Or marry them, Channing mused privately. She was being very delicate with her words. He needed a little distance and time to sort through the revelations. He was thinking with his temper at the moment, something he cautioned the men of the League not to do. He needed cool objectivity. He and Alina had been at cross-purposes, but explaining that didn’t make everything all right, nor did it pave the way to a happy ever after, if that was even what they wanted. He knew what he wanted, though. He wanted her, games and pasts aside, he wanted her with a single-minded fierceness. How did he convince her she could want him, too?

  Channing pulled her close. ‘Oh, my dear, brave girl. I wish I could make it right.’ Amery was right. He wasn’t just in over his head, he was in head over heels and every other body part.

  A sound at the door broke his thoughts. Alina looked up, alarmed. He shook his head. ‘It’s all right. It’s Amery. The League has a special knock.’

  A moment later, Amery stepped inside, his mouth a grim line of determination. He wasted no time. ‘Channing, we have a problem. There are rumours. You need to come back to the ballroom.’ He paused and looked at Alina. ‘I don’t think you should. It won’t be pleasant and I fear we need to be careful about associations at the moment until we understand what we’re up against.’ Channing decoded the message swiftly. Amery must be concerned indeed if he was worried about them being seen with Alina.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Alina spoke up, her face pale in the candlelight.

  Amery glanced at him. Channing nodded. ‘Tell her.’ He would spare Alina, but she’d hear the rumours, whatever they were, soon enough.

  ‘They’re saying the comtesse killed her husband.’

  One look at Alina’s stricken face and Channing’s first inclination was to burst into the ballroom and call out the first man who dared
to utter such a claim. But that would not solve the problem. It would, in fact, be the very worst thing he could do. It would call attention to the depth of his feelings for Alina. By doing so it would make her even more vulnerable to slander because now she’d think she had to protect him, again. No, the best thing to do would be to calmly walk into the ballroom and carry on as if nothing was wrong that affected him directly, gather information and plan accordingly, but damn it all if such a decision was easy.

  Channing tugged at his waistcoat, gathering a semblance of control about him. ‘Can you see Alina to Argosy House? I will go out and see what can be done—’

  ‘I want to go out as well,’ Alina interrupted. ‘I want to face them.’ Her chin was up, her eyes firing with anger.

  Channing placed a soothing hand on her arm. ‘I know exactly how you feel. But facing them while the rumour is as hot as your temper is not ideal.’ He felt like a hypocrite. His temper was no less hot than hers and he had the satisfaction of going into that ballroom even if he couldn’t fight anyone. He leaned close to her ear, breathing in the scent of her. The primal sensation of wanting to possess her, protect her, was filling him. She was his. ‘You will be vindicated, my love, you may rest easy on that account. I give you my word.’ She had been harmed enough, suffered enough on her own. But those days were gone. She had him now whether she wanted him or not.

  Channing stepped away from her, the suddenness, the newness of the realisation swamping him along with the intensity of what it meant, but mean it he did. Alina was his.

  * * *

  The ballroom was seething with a frenetic energy when he entered. Channing bowed and nodded to acquaintances with ease, making his way towards his partner for the seventh dance, his hostess, Lady Evert. If anyone knew the gist of the gossip it would be her and she was the sort who would be in an immediate panic.

  His instincts were spot on. They’d barely taken the first turn of their waltz when Lady Evert broached the subject. ‘It’s about her. The comtesse.’ Her tone was terse in its condemnation. Channing knew what was running through her mind; as hostess, this could ruin her ball—she had invited the woman, after all—or it could make her event an early highlight of the Season, the place where a delicious scandal had started. But she’d have to play it right.

  She gave him a simpering look. ‘I don’t suppose you could be talked into rescuing her? Perhaps take her away after this dance. Out of sight, out of mind, I always say.’ She shot a nervous look at the doorway, fearful that the comtesse would suddenly reappear from wherever she’d disappeared to. There was desperation in Lady Evert’s command as she weighed her choices. That suited Channing.

  ‘Perhaps I won’t rescue her at all. She might have already sensed a change in the wind and left,’ Channing suggested with a neutrality he didn’t feel. He couldn’t risk exposing his hand. But it was deuced difficult. Alina was in trouble again and this time he could protect her. People would think twice about crossing Mr Channing Deveril. Such a move, however, would not be discreet. It would be a flagrant announcement of their association.

  ‘I would consider it a personal favour if you did.’ Lady Evert gave him a knowing look. In other words, if Channing could quietly manoeuvre the troublesome comtesse from the venue, she would be grateful. It would be excuse enough to exit the party. He could leave and Lady Evert would think it had been on her account.

  ‘Then I suppose I could oblige.’ Channing gave her a charming smile. He’d already obliged, in fact. By now, Amery should have quietly left with Alina for Argosy House.

  * * *

  When the dance was over, he wove through the ballroom, carefully making his way to the library to assure himself Amery had done exactly as instructed. He did not want to make his exit obvious. He had years of experience with this—stop and chat, nod to an acquaintance as if he had all the time in the world. He reminded himself this was not the first time Alina had faced society’s scrutiny. There’d been questions when she’d returned two years ago. But he’d been beside her then, as her hired escort, able to diffuse rumours with his own stories. And she was no wilting wallflower, she’d meet society’s censure with a show of strength. Still, the evening had been an emotionally draining one for her and it was bound to be more so before it was over.

  Channing gathered his thoughts and plans as he’d made his way through the crowd, letting objectivity flow through him, calming his overheated emotions. Planning helped create perspective. He would drop a few casual responses to the rumour at his clubs over the next couple of days. If he could get Amery, Jocelyn and Nick to do the same, the rumour would defuse. He knew precisely how to handle this sort of thing. The agency was always quelling such cruel scandals. He was good at it.

  He hoped it would be enough. There should be a statute of limitations on such things. Alina had worked hard to make herself socially acceptable, only to have to constantly brace herself against having that acceptability taken away at a moment’s notice. Channing stayed an agonising hour longer to gather information, to hear how the rumour was playing out, what people’s reactions were. But his thoughts were with Alina and his newfound knowledge.

  * * *

  By the time he called for his carriage and headed to Argosy House, one thought loomed larger than most. Quelling rumours was one thing, quelling doubt was another. Knowing what he knew, he began to wonder: had she done it? It was yet another telling factor as to how far he’d fallen where Alina was concerned.

  Her culpability had not been his first thought when Amery had told him of the accusation. Neither had it been his second or third. Those thoughts had been about protecting Alina. It was only now with the crisis firmly in hand that the thought of potential, real guilt crossed his mind. Interestingly enough, what bothered him most about the rumour was not that she stood accused of murder. Her husband had been a mentally unbalanced brute of a man after all. What bothered him most was that he hadn’t known. It was one more thing she’d omitted telling him, one more way in which she sought to distance herself from him. Just when he thought he knew her, he didn’t.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Seymour knew. It could be the only explanation for the rumours. Who else would benefit from having such things surface now? But what did he know and how much?

  Alina paced Channing’s office at Argosy House while she waited for Channing to arrive. Amery was off getting tea. The place was quiet, all of the men out on nightly assignments. She ran through reasonably safe assumptions in her mind. Obviously, Seymour had discovered the deed was false. What did he know of her, though? Had he connected her to the Marliss family and now sensed she wanted revenge? Was that what was behind the rumours being spread tonight? Or had he simply dug up the old scandal as insurance against her and nothing more? If she knew the answers to those questions, she would have a better idea of what he meant to do with this information.

  Amery returned, bearing a tray, his cravat hanging undone, his jacket off. ‘I find tea helps in situations like this.’ He gave a boyish grin that admitted he’d fought the kitchen for this assemblage of food and the kitchen had nearly won.

  Channing took longer to arrive than she’d anticipated. She’d drank all of Amery’s tea out of restlessness. Two hours had lapsed since she’d left the Evert ball. She’d had plenty of time to assimilate what had happened in the library, what she’d revealed. Had Channing had time to assess it? Had he had time to be repulsed by what the comte had done to her? Or was he still in the throes of his chivalry? Her heart ached. He’d believed the worst of her and still rallied to her cause even before tonight. What would it be like to have such a man as her own? He was offering it, of course, a man like Channing would. But she could not take it. She was so very dirty, sullied from her husband’s vices, and now Channing knew the worst: she had murder on her hands. With that kind of scandal, she didn’t dare to dream about a man like Channing Deveril.

 
At last, she heard his footsteps on the front steps, swift and urgent at the start, but slowing as he entered the hall to a regular pace. The alteration made her smile. Of course, Channing would never outwardly give the appearance of hurrying anywhere, it would be a sign that things were out of his control. For all his airs to the contrary, Channing Deveril was a man who liked to be in control. His manner in the bedroom affirmed it.

  Alina could appreciate that. She liked to be in control, too, or at least to give the illusion of it. She heard him murmur something low and inaudible to Amery in the hall as she hastily took a seat in the chair, thumbing through a magazine as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She looked up when he entered, giving the impression she was surprised to see him, that she hadn’t heard a whisper of his presence on the stairs or that she’d even been listening for one.

  Lord, he was devastating. She’d seen him just hours ago in full evening dress and thought it wasn’t possible for him to look any more handsome. But here he was, wrecking that hypothesis in messy dishabille. His cravat was undone, its unravelled length hanging against the dark-grey silk of his waistcoat. He carried his jacket over one arm and a blond swathe of hair fell over one eye, having escaped the efforts of his valet to keep it in place.

  Her second reaction was less positive: the news must be worse than she thought if Channing had gone to this effort to appear casual, to give the appearance nothing was wrong. He would try to spare her the brunt of it. She could not allow that. She couldn’t help herself, or protect Channing if it came to that, if she didn’t know all she was up against. She rose and straightened her shoulders. ‘Was it foul?’ It was best to begin with a show of strength. This was her problem, not his. Her life had been one mess after another. Not his.

  Channing laid his coat over the back of his chair behind the desk, giving himself something to do while he gathered his thoughts, Alina guessed. ‘I think we can safely assume Seymour has discovered the deed is a fake and that he has determined your connection to the Marlisses.’