Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

From the tangled nest of bed linens, he peered at the mantel clock. His head throbbed with pain as he struggled to focus. Noon already. He’d lost half the day.

Bugger half the day, his pounding brain insisted. You’ve lost your wits. You kissed Lily, you unmitigated ass. And you didn’t even do it well.

God. He couldn’t conceive of how to remedy the circumstance now. If it could be remedied at all. He had to get out of here.

Taking care with his wounded arm, he rose from the bed and staggered to the washstand. Unwilling to wait for a proper bath to be drawn, he made good use of the pitcher of water and cake of soap. After he’d sponged his face and torso clean, he dried his body with a small towel and cast about for something to wear. To the side, a set of clean garments was laid out. Crisp shirt and cravat, dun trousers, dark blue coat.

Julian didn’t recognize the clothes as his own. Which meant they were likely Leo’s.

Suppressing a morbid shudder, he rang for a servant. “I want my own clothing,” he said to the footman who promptly appeared.

“But sir, they’re soiled. The laundress hasn’t yet—”

“I don’t care. Just bring them.”

The liveried youth bowed. “Yes, sir.”

While he waited, Julian turned his attention to a tray of covered dishes on the side table. He lifted a silver dome to find an array of food: cold meats, cheeses, pickle, bread and butter, a dish of grapes and apricots. His stomach churned. Much as he hated to admit it, Lily had been right in this respect. He needed to make more effort to take sustenance, even when he didn’t feel like eating. Brandy and fury could only fuel a man for so long.

He forced himself to choke down some cold ham, a small hunk of bread, and a wedge of hard cheese. By the time he’d washed the food down with a cup of tea, the footman had reappeared with his clothing.

The shirt and cravat had been washed out and hastily ironed. The left sleeve still showed a jagged rent, of course, and some faded bloodstains spotted the fabric. But the unstarched linen felt warm and fresh against his skin. The silk front of his waistcoat was largely unblemished.

His topcoat, however … the thing was beyond saving, but someone had made a valiant attempt. The garment had been carefully hung and brushed, and, he judged with a sniff, steamed with a light perfume. The tear on the sleeve was not so obvious to the observer, but inside, the lining was streaked with dried blood.

Julian’s nose wrinkled as he slid his arms into the sleeves. He would have to burn the thing as soon as he returned home. Underneath that misting of eau de cologne, the wool retained the faint odor of filth.

Much the same, his detractors would doubtless say, as Julian Bellamy himself.

Tugging violently on his cuffs, he cursed his stupidity. Of all the places to collapse—on the street in front of Harcliffe House? He was no stranger to the gutter, but he’d sworn he would never return. And for Lily to see him like that …

He rubbed his temples. Time to make his escape.

“If you please, sir.” Swift, the butler, appeared in the doorway. “Lady Lily requests that you join her downstairs, once you are feeling quite”—the silver-haired man gave him an assaying look—“restored.” He bowed and left.

Restored. Julian mused on the word. Was he feeling quite restored? With a full belly and a bandaged arm, perhaps he approached that definition. But feeling restored was a different matter from feeling redeemed. The latter sensation would continue to elude him, he feared.

Couldn’t he just sneak out of the house? Send her a note of apology later, perhaps with a flower arrangement of outrageous size?

He sighed heavily. No, he couldn’t.

He took the stairs slowly, then ducked his head into each open room in turn, searching for Lily. She wasn’t in the salon. Nor the morning room, nor the parlor. The music room seemed an unlikely spot, but he crossed the corridor and tried it anyway.

No Lily.

Leo’s library was next. He breezed by it, not expecting to find her there. When he glimpsed a flash of muslin inside, he pulled up short, stumbling against the doorjamb and banging his injured arm.

“Blast. Bugger. Bloody hell.”

The string of oaths—even so violently uttered—was spoken without consequence, swallowed whole by the stillness of the room.

Lily sat at the desk, quill in hand, her dark head bent over an open ledger. From the doorway, Julian observed her closely. The plume of her quill continued its slow, stately promenade across the page. He could just make out the gentle scratch of her script over the fierce drumming of his heart.

He leaned against the doorframe—on his good shoulder this time. “I’ve mucked it right well this time, haven’t I? Tell me, Lily. How do I make this right?”

The pen stilled. Her slender, elegant hand slowly replaced the quill in the inkwell. She raised her head a few degrees, giving him her exquisite profile. Midday sunlight streamed in from the window behind her, gilding the soft features of her face and dusting her eyelashes with bronze. She had the loveliest ears he’d ever seen, each one a delicate porcelain spiral, like the handle of a teacup. So perfect.

So fragile.

“Do you know,” he said, “there are men who would like very much to see me dead. Powerful men. Obscenely wealthy men. Men who can afford to be patient and engage the services of large, ruthless brutes. I’ve managed to evade them all. But you … God’s truth, I think you’ll be the very death of me.”

She frowned at the ledger, then flipped it closed. Sliding the book aside with a graceful turn of her wrist, she withdrew a neat stack of letters from a drawer.

While she unfolded the topmost missive, Julian reached for the mirror. As was the case in every room of the Chatwicks’ graciously appointed Mayfair town house, a small mirror dangled from the doorjamb, affixed there by means of a length of ribbon and a tack. He twisted it, angling the reflective surface to face the window. Catching a ray of sunlight, he flicked his wrist back and forth until the flutter of bright flashes drew her attention.

Blinking with surprise, Lily lifted her face to the doorway. As she took in his appearance, her lips curved in a welcoming smile. “Oh, Julian. Forgive me, I didn’t notice you there.”

“Good afternoon.” He made a gallant bow, crossed the room to her, and took her outstretched hand in his, giving it a light squeeze, nothing more. When he released her fingers, her expression was puzzled, perhaps even hurt. But today he didn’t trust himself with a kiss.

She gave the cuff of his sleeve a smart twist. “You needn’t use the mirrors. They’re for servants, not friends or family. You’re both.”

“I didn’t want to startle you.”

Julian wondered if it would ever cease to startle him, the boundless generosity of the Chatwicks. Ever since he’d formed an acquaintance with Lily’s twin brother, Leo, the late Marquess of Harcliffe, Julian had been welcomed into this house. First as a friend, then as honorary family. They knew nothing of him. Not his ancestry, not his origins. Not even his true name. But never once had they treated him like one who ought to use the mirrors rather than tap a noblewoman’s shoulder to draw her attention.

Leo and Lily Chatwick were, without question, a singular example of goodness among the social elite. Now Leo was dead, and it was Julian’s fault. And Lily was left alone, and that was his fault, too.

“You look lovely,” he told her, as if a feeble compliment could make everything right.

“Thank you. You look dreadful.” Her dark brown eyes scanned his appearance. “Just look at that coat. Once it fit you to perfection, and now it hangs loose on your frame.”

“I’m making it the new fashion. Next Season, they’ll all be wearing ill-fitting coats with ripped sleeves. The tailors will despise me.”

Lily gave him a chastening look. “We need to talk.”

Here it was. The moment he’d been dreading. “Very well.” He took a straight-backed armchair and placed it just a few feet from hers, positioning it to facilitate lipreading. “Let’s talk.”

“No, not here.” She replaced the bundle of letters in the drawer, then shut and locked it with a small key. Reaching for her gloves, she said, “Let’s go out to the square. It’s a lovely afternoon.”

Julian hesitated. “Really, I’m not fit for public view. And I ought to be—”

Ignoring his protest, she threaded her arm through his. He promptly misplaced any will to argue.

It truly was a lovely afternoon, Julian thought as they stepped out into the crisp late October air. This was that rare time of year when the London air could actually be crisp, rather than wavy with humidity or fuzzy with soot. A clear sky capped the rows of lavish town homes and the square they framed. The sun floated bright and yellow overhead, and the world was sharp beneath it. Every edge glinted; each pane of glass reflected blue. And he had Lily on his arm.

Yes, indeed. A lovely afternoon. Goddamned heartbreakingly beautiful.

As they crossed into the square, Julian decided to face the matter head-on. They found a vacant bench and sat on opposite ends, turning to face one another.

“I’m sorry for last night,” he began. “Or rather, for this morning.”

“You should be.”

“What I did was … unconscionable. You have my word it will never happen again.”

“I should hope not.”

In some other circumstance, with some other lady, his pride might have taken a knock or two, simply from the sheer alacrity of her agreement. But then, they were often of one mind, he and Lily. He told himself this quick consensus was a good thing. A humbling thing, but a good thing.

He went on, “I don’t know what possessed me to take such liberties. I can only blame the sleeping powder, combined with my state of extreme exhaustion, and I—”

She held up a hand. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

He paused, suddenly unsure. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t possibly be apologizing for that kiss?”

“I … I can’t?” Did she not want him to apologize for that kiss? She couldn’t possibly have desired it. Much less enjoyed it. Could she have? The mere possibility sent stupid, irrational hope blazing through him.

She made a dismissive gesture. “It was scarcely worth mentioning, let alone deserving of apology.”

Right. Just to confirm: The hope was both stupid and irrational.

After briefly pressing his lips together to seal his humiliation, he said, “I apologize for my behavior nonetheless. It was wrong of me.”

“You weren’t yourself. You were drugged and barely conscious.” Smiling, she added, “And considering you swooned again in the middle of it, I’m not certain that kiss reflected favorably on me, either.”

“For the last time, I did not swoon.”

“You did.” Her eyes went grave. “You fainted dead away, Julian. And you do owe me an apology. Can you imagine what you put me through? Roused from bed in the dark of night, summoned to the door to view your senseless body in a heap? It was like Leo all over again. I can’t endure another scene like that.”

Guilt twisted his heart. “Lily …”

“How much time has passed since Leo died?”

He gave her a look, one that spoke without words. You, of all people, should not have to ask.

And she didn’t. Leo had been loved by many, but by no one so much as the two of them. They shared a moment of silent grief.

“Five months,” she said. “Almost.”

“Four months, three weeks, and a day.”

“As you say. And to look at you, one would think five years have passed. Haunting the streets at all hours, developing a sudden fascination with blood sport, chasing shadows down dark alleyways. And you’ve grown so thin and pale.”