A Scot in the Dark

Chapter 3

FALLEN ANGEL FISTICUFFS: SCOTTISH BRUTE SERVES BRUMMELLIAN BRAGGART SCATHING SETDOWN

Alec took to the one place in London that had furniture built to accommodate a grown man. That the place also came with scotch imported from his own distillery, a ring ready for a fight if he felt so inclined, card and carom tables, and a handful of men he did not loathe was an added bonus.

“Warnick returns.” The Marquess of Eversley—known to all the world as King—dropped into a large chair across from Alec. “Alert the news.”

“I am off the clock,” Duncan West, newspaper magnate, said dryly from his own seat next to Alec. “Though I admit curiosity, having been summoned by the Diluted Duke.”

Membership in The Fallen Angel—Britain’s most exclusive gaming hell—was by invitation only and had little to do with fortune or title. Indeed, the nobs who frequented White’s and Brook’s and Boodles’s were most often not invited to join the Angel.

King was a member, as was West—despite the newspaperman having had a series of public disputes with the owners. As he called the two men friends, Alec found himself welcome at the club without membership, a fact for which he was grateful. Even he had to admit that they didn’t make gaming hells quite the same way in Scotland. Or anywhere else for that matter.

Alec looked to King. “My thanks for the invitation.”

His friend raised a brow. “As you virtually demanded it, there’s no thanks necessary.”

“I required a good drink.”

“You could land yourself an invitation for membership, considering the Angel is the only place in London a man can get Stuart scotch.” King’s gaze settled on Alec’s coat. “Assuming you found a better tailor, for God’s sake. Where did you get that coat?”

Alec shrugged one tight shoulder. “Mossband.”

Eversley barked a laugh at the answer—a barely there town on the English side of the Scottish border. “It shows.”

Alec ignored the retort. “Neither London clothing nor London clubs are necessary in Scotland.”

“You enjoy London clubs in London, however,” West interjected.

“I’m not addled,” Alec said, drinking deep before he leaned back in a massive leather chair and leveled West with a serious look. The man was owner of five of the most profitable publications in Britain, three of which were widely believed to be the pinnacle of modern journalism.

But it was not the legitimate publications that interested Alec.

It was The Scandal Sheet.

“You’re not off the clock tonight,” he said to the newspaperman.

West sat back. “No, I assumed not.”

“It seems I have a ward.”

One of West’s blond brows rose. “Seems?”

“My solicitor failed to inform me of such.”

“That’s a rather terrible solicitor, if you ask me.”

“He took me at my word when I told him I was not interested in the London trappings of the dukedom.”

King chuckled. “He thought the girl a trapping? Christ. Don’t tell her that. In my experience, women don’t enjoy being thought of as such.”

No. Alec didn’t imagine Lily would enjoy that. “I know about her now, however.”

“Everyone knows about her now,” West said.

“Because of the scandal,” Alec replied.

“Because of her,” West clarified. “She’s widely believed to be the most beautiful woman in London—”

“She might well be,” Alec said. He’d never seen one so beautiful.

“She’s not,” King and West spoke in unison.

Alec rolled his eyes. “Your wives excepted, of course.”

His friends smiled broadly and West continued. “Miss Hargrove is also a curiosity. A beautiful woman attached to a dukedom, not officially out in Society, but regularly seen on the arm of one of Society’s most venerated peacocks.”

Alec resisted the distaste that came at the idea. “The source of the scandal, I assume?”

“You don’t wish to ask her for the particulars?” West said.

A memory of Lily’s obvious shame flashed. “I don’t think she is interested in telling me.”

“Mmm.”

Alec frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Only that they are never interested in telling us.” The newspaperman was married to a woman who had been something of a scandal herself—sister to a duke, unwed mother to a daughter who was now as much a source of paternal pride to West as his own children.

“Luckily, this one isn’t to be my problem,” Alec said.

“They’re always our problem,” King interjected.

“Not Lillian Hargrove. Unlike the rest of London, I did not know of her two weeks ago, and I have no intention of knowing of her two weeks hence. She’s to be the problem of the man who disgraced her.” He looked to West. “I simply need to know who that is.”

West’s gaze flickered to a faro table nearby, and he watched the game for a long moment. Alec followed suit. A man dressed all in white joined a threesome there, flashing a broad smile at the dealer and setting a massive amount of money on the table.

Alec looked back to his friends. “Who is that?”

King raised a brow at West, who sat back in his chair. “Shall I tell you what I know of your ward’s circumstance?”

Alec nodded, the faro table gone from his mind.

“There is a painting.”

Alec’s brow furrowed. “What kind of painting?”

A pause. Then King said, “Allegedly? A nude.”

Alec froze, the words summoning a great roar in his ears. Not words. Word. Nude. Long limbs. Full lips. High breasts. Round hips. Skin as soft as silk. And eyes like a silver storm.

No.

“A nude of whom?”

West’s hands went wide, as if to say, Isn’t it obvious?

Of course, it was.

Alec shot forward in his chair. “Allegedly. King said allegedly.”

West replied. “It’s not alleged.”

He turned on the newspaperman. “You have seen it?”

“I have not, but my wife has.” He paused. “Georgiana is on the Selection Committee of the Royal Academy.”

Alec’s heart pounded. “And it is Lillian.” West remained still and Alec grasped for another solution. “How do we know she honestly sat for it? You and I both know that scandal is rarely truth.”

“It’s true in this case,” West said.

“How do you know that?”

West cut him a look. “Because I’m exceedingly good at my job, and I know the difference between gossip and fact.”

Alec considered the woman he’d met hours earlier. Yes, she was beautiful, but she was not an idiot. He shook his head. “Not in this case,” he said. “I’ve met the girl. There’s no way she posed for a nude.”

“Love makes us do strange things.” King’s words were simple and direct, and Alec hated the ring of truth in them.

He did not want to acknowledge the truth. He did not want to imagine her nude for a man. He had enough trouble not imagining her nude, full stop.

Nevertheless. “So the girl is in love.”

It was the question he’d asked earlier—the one she’d answered without words. She hadn’t needed words. He’d seen the sadness in her eyes. The wistfulness. As though she wished the man in question to appear there, in her sitting room.

He knew about wishing. And he knew, better than most, how false emotion could lead to some mediocre artist manipulating and mistreating her. He met West’s eyes. “Where is the painting?”

“No one knows. It is set to be the final piece exhibited as part of the Royal Exhibition in ten days’ time,” West said. “They select the best, Warnick. And this one—Georgiana says it is unmatched.”

“The most beautiful portrait ever painted,” King interjected.

“We don’t know it is her.”

“She admitted it, Warnick.”

Alec stilled again. “She did what?”

“She stormed the stage. Caused a scene. Professed her love. Was rebuffed. In front of all London,” West said. “That alone was enough to destroy her in their eyes, but there are those who believe she is a part of it. That she and her artist worked together to ensure that the painting’s reputation will precede it when it travels the country. The world.”

Alec cursed and shook his head. “Why would she do that? Why ruin herself? The girl is locked away in my house, waiting for the funds to run.”

Not that she would get them from him.

He’d seen women run. He’d run himself. And he knew what happened when the running stopped.

Lillian Hargrove would not run.

“She wants the funds from you?” It was King who spoke this time.

Alec shook his head. “In ten days’ time, she inherits pin money.”

West swirled the scotch in his glass. “Fine timing, as the painting is revealed in ten days’ time.”

Alec met his gaze. “What are you saying?”

One lean shoulder lifted and fell. “Only, imagine the Mona Lisa.”

Alec huffed his irritation at the exercise. “Who cares a fig about the damn Mona Lisa?”

“A great many people, I imagine.”

Alec cut him a look. “I grow weary of your obvious self-made brilliance, West.”

The newspaperman smirked. “You’re self-made, are you not? You only lack the brilliance.”

“A pity, considering the size of you,” King needled. “I suppose it is true what they say. We can’t have everything.”

Alec cursed them both. “Fine. The Mona Lisa. What of it?”

“Imagine how renowned the model would be if we knew her name.”

Shock flared. “You think Lillian wishes for fame?” Memory flashed. Those grey eyes, storm clouds of sorrow. “No.”

King raised a brow. “I am married to a Dangerous Daughter. Living proof that some revel in fame.” Not six months earlier, the Marquess of Eversley had found a stowaway from one of London’s most notorious families in his carriage. That stowaway had become an unexpected traveling companion and, after the story broke, the most scandalous member of the family. And Marchioness of Eversley.

“You would have never married if not for me.”

King cut him a look. “Oh, yes. Your part in the play was most definitely welcome. I didn’t have to make amends for it at all.”

“You’re lucky you had amends to make,” Alec said. “Someone had to knock some sense into you.”

“And for that, I will be forever grateful.” The words rang with a remarkable honesty.

“Och,” Alec said, looking away. “There’s nothing worse than a nob who loves his wife.”

“Watch it, Duke. Halfhearted or no, you are a nob now—all you need is the wife.”

It would never happen. He’d learned his lesson every time he’d considered it. Every time he’d been passed over for money, for title, for refinement. Every time he’d been desired for his body and nothing else. The Scottish Brute.

He shook his head. “I’ve enough trouble with women, thank you.”

“It’s because you scare the wee things,” King said, mocking Alec’s brogue.

“This one isn’t scared of me.” If anything, Lillian Hargrove was willing to battle him without hesitation. “She could do with a little more apprehension, honestly.”

“Another reason to believe she might be party to the scandal,” West said. “Lovely Lily, immortalized for all ages.”

He loathed the moniker, not that he would show it. “I didn’t know she called herself Lily,” he replied, drinking again, disliking the fact that these two knew more about her than he did.

And he did not like that they might be right. That Lily might have destroyed herself for a man, without hesitation. He thought back on the girl, on their meeting earlier. She didn’t seem to be proud of her scandal. Did not wear it as a badge of honor. He had seen the regret in her gaze. The shame there.

Recognized it as keenly as he knew his own.

He shook his head. “She was not part of it.”

“Then the performance at the exhibition . . .” King began.

West finished the thought. “Was not a performance at all.” He looked to Alec. “Poor girl. What now?”

I plan to run.

She wouldn’t run. If he had to tear London apart brick by brick to ensure it, she would stay here and have her reputation restored. England would not chase her away or destroy her, the way it so easily destroyed those who did not suit it.

One solution remained—safe and swift and utterly acceptable. Swiftness was most certainly a boon. Swiftness ended in Alec returning home, to Scotland, far from London and Lillian Hargrove, who was turning out to be more trouble than expected.

“You could marry her.” King’s words startled Alec from his thoughts.

“Marry whom?”

West smirked. “The London air is clouding your thoughts, Scot. The girl. Miss Hargrove. King is suggesting you marry her.”

A vision flashed, Lily beautiful and perfect in her simple grey dress, skin like porcelain and eyes flashing fire. There was a time when he would have proposed on the spot, blinded by her beauty and desperate to win her heart. To claim her for himself.

Despite his size. Despite his hulk. Despite his lack of grace.

He knew better now. He was for baser acts than marrying.

“Even if I weren’t her guardian—”

King interrupted. “What nonsense. If I had a pound for every guardian who married his ward, I’d be rich as sin.”

“You are already rich as sin,” Alec replied. “Either way, she wouldn’t have me.” It took a moment for him to realize that West and King were staring at him. “What is it?”

West found his tongue first. “I think I speak for us both when I say the girl would get down on her knees and thank her maker you proposed.”

The Scottish Brute.

So big. So beastly. Only for working days.

The memories burned. How many Englishwomen had denied him anything more than sex? Held themselves for another when it came to marriage? Even if he were interested in the girl. Even if she were more than a troublesome beauty keeping him from home . . . He shook his head. “I am not the husband in question.”

King watched him, he knew. But he did not look to the man who had known him since their days in school. Not even when the marquess said, “What then?”

“I am a duke, am I not?”

King lingered over the last of his scotch. “With the patent to prove it.”

“And dukes are allowed to do their will.”

West smirked. “It is a perk of the title, I am told.”

Alec nodded. “The man who ruined her. He marries her.”

A wild cheer from the faro table nearby punctuated the words. Alec looked toward the noise, noting the man in the white coat and trousers once more. It appeared that the peacock had lost a massive round, if the shock on his face were any indication.

So it was in gaming hells. One moment up, the next, down.

So, too, it was when it came to women, Lily’s scoundrel would soon discover.

Alec turned back to his friends. “He marries her if I have to put a pistol to his head and force him to do it.”

King blinked. “You might have to.”

“Well, being a brutish Scot will help with that. The plan is impenetrable.” He turned to West. “A name, if you please.”

“I shall do one better,” West said, finishing his drink and indicating the card table. “Name and location. You seek Derek Hawkins, artist and theatrical genius. The vision in white currently nursing his loss.”

It was not possible.

Alec could not imagine this man conversing with Lillian, let alone . . . No. There was no way that too-honest woman would be caught dead with such an obvious peacock. He looked to King for confirmation. “No.”

King nodded. “Indeed. Artist, theatrical genius, and proper ass.”

He didn’t know what he’d imagined. Someone stronger. Less of a dandy. Alec wouldn’t have been surprised by someone devastatingly handsome, or someone with incredible wealth, or a man who oozed disgusting charm. But this man—this pompous peacock—this man didn’t seem fit to cloak a puddle and aid Lily’s walk through town.

Do you love him?

Alec had expected someone deserving of her.

Suddenly, his plan did not seem so perfect.

He looked to his friends and asked the only question that came to mind. “Why?”

Before they could answer, the card table erupted in another commotion. From what Alec could see, the Hawkins character was attempting to negotiate a loan with the casino. The majordomo had been summoned, and Hawkins was saying, “My name will soon be known throughout the world! How dare you refuse me?”

The casino employee adjusted his spectacles and shook his head.

“I assure you,” Hawkins blustered. “Your employers will be livid if they discover that you’ve denied me funds. I shall be the most famous Englishman there ever was! Newton? Milton? Shakespeare? They will pale in comparison to Hawkins. They will beg to honor me here in this place, and I will decline because of your”—he waved a hand at the majordomo’s eyewear—“obvious shortsightedness.”

“Good Lord. He’s worse than I imagined,” Alec said.

“He’s only warming up,” West said, calling for more drink.

“If you don’t have the blunt, you don’t play, Hawkins,” one of the other men said, obviously eager to return to the game.

“I have the blunt. I simply don’t carry it with me.” He turned to the majordomo again. “Are you deaf, as well as blind? Do you not understand that I am the greatest artist of all time?”

The table erupted in jeering hoots, and Alec could not stop himself from laughing at the insufferable man. He looked to his friends. “You’ve the story wrong,” he said. “No way in hell is this man her scandal.” Lillian wouldn’t be able to stomach more than a minute with this pompous ass. She would see the truth of him immediately.

The ass continued, entirely sure of himself. “I’m Derek Hawkins! I do not exaggerate the quality of my work! My genius is more than any the world has ever seen!”

Alec looked to King. “Is he always this way?”

“If by ‘this way’ you mean a pompous prick, yes,” came the dry reply. “He courted my sister-in-law for a time. I cannot imagine why she refused his suit.”

“I can’t force Lillian to marry him.”

“I thought she loved him?”

“I don’t care,” Alec said. And he didn’t. There was no possible way he was wedding her to this clown.

He was going to have to deal with the situation in a different way.

“I demand an audience with an owner,” Hawkins insisted.

And as though he had been willed into being, one of the owners of the casino appeared. The tall, ginger-haired financier of the club spoke with utter calm. “Hawkins, how many times must we tell you, you are too unlucky for us to bank you without collateral.”

“You haven’t any understanding of art, Cross,” Hawkins declared. “Bring me someone with an eye.” He fairly begged for another owner. “Bourne. Or Chase. He’ll see reason. My collateral is my name. My work. I am the star of this year’s Exhibition. Did you not know that?”

“You have mistaken me for one who cares about this year’s Exhibition.” The man called Cross was unimpressed. “You leave and return with funds, and we’ll discuss a seat at the table. For now, the game resumes without you.” He turned to indicate that the dealer should deal the cards.

“Your mistake. I shan’t grace you with my presence once the painting shows. It’s the greatest nude since Rubens.” Alec gritted his teeth, the word nude ricocheting through him. “Better than Rubens. I am Leonardo. I am Michelangelo. I’m better. You could have enjoyed the profits yourself. And now, you will beg me to return.”

“No one has even seen this legendary painting, Hawkins!” someone said. “Come back in ten days when we’ve a chance to decide for ourselves precisely what kind of genius you are.”

Hawkins turned on the man. “You know it will be revealed in ten days, which tells me you’re planning to have a look.”

“At Lovely Lily in the flesh? You’re damn right I do.”

Alec was on his feet, fists clenched, before he could think.

“Warnick.” King was beside him in an instant. “Careful. You shall make it worse.”

West did not move from his chair to warn, “Mine is not the only rag you need worry about, Duke.”

Later, Alec would be proud of himself that he did not tear the men limb from limb as originally intended. Instead, he spoke, the solution coming even as he spoke the words, thick with angry brogue. “I shall spot the artist.”

The room seemed to still, as every person in attendance turned to face him.

“Who are you?” Hawkins asked, confusion and relief warring in the face of Alec’s appearance.

Alec spread his hands wide, in innocent affectation. “You look your gift horse in the mouth?”

“No,” Hawkins said. “Not necessarily. But I like to know to whom I am indebted.”

Alec nodded. “Does it matter? Mine is the only offer of blunt there is for you tonight.”

Hawkins’s gaze narrowed, his head tilting as he considered Alec, his gaze settling on wide shoulders in a too-tight jacket, the ill-fitting sleeves of the garment. His thick burr. “And if I say yes? What comes next?”

“Then you play your game.”

Hawkins tilted his head. “And?”

“And if you win, you win.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then I take back my money. With interest.”

Hawkins’s gaze narrowed. “What interest?”

“The painting.”

Hawkins blinked. “The painting for the Exhibition?”

“The very one.”

Hawkins’s gaze flickered to King and West where they watched the interaction. Recognition flared and he returned his attention to Alec. The man was less of a fool than Alec had given him credit for. “The Duke of Warnick? Lily’s disappeared guardian!”

Lily. He loathed the name on this dandy’s lips. “Miss Hargrove, to you,” Alec snapped.

Hawkins was already beyond the name. “I never would have recognized you. They say you’re big, but I would have thought you could have found a tailor with your fortune. The cut of that coat—it’s abominable.” Hawkins shrugged and straightened his sleeve with a disdainful laugh.

“Do you wish the money or not?”

“You think spotting me the funds for cards will buy you a masterpiece?” Hawkins’s chest puffed out with pride and misplaced certainty. “It’s a work of genius. Not that I expect a man cut from your cloth to understand what that means.” He paused, somehow looking up at Alec and also down his nose. “It will steal breath for the rest of time.”

Alec took a step toward him. “I shall show you what it is like to lose your breath.”

“Warnick.” King again. Alec heard the rest of the warning.

Don’t make it worse.

The men nearby had tripled in number, smelling a fight in the air.

He took a deep breath. “Ten thousand.”

The number was outrageous. More than the painting could possibly be worth.

Something flashed in Hawkins’s eyes. Something like greed. “It is not for sale.”

“Everything is for sale,” Alec said. He knew it better than anything. “Twenty thousand.”

A collective gasp rose from the men assembled. Twenty thousand pounds would keep Hawkins for years. For the rest of his life.

But the offer was a mistake. It revealed too much of Alec’s desire. Too much of his willingness to save the girl. It put Hawkins in power, dammit.

The artist smirked. “If only you had been here a year earlier, think of what your misplaced sense of responsibility might have prevented.”

Alec did not move. Refused to rise to the bait. Refused to pluck the dandy’s head from his shoulders as he deserved.

Hawkins continued. “If only you were different, Duke. You might have saved her.”

Hawkins couldn’t have known the words would set Alec off. Couldn’t have predicted their power. His fists clenched, every muscle tightening, threatening to attack. Desperate to do so. “From your actions, you mean.”

Light came into Hawkins’s eyes. “I assure you, Your Grace, she was party to it,” he said, the words filled with foul suggestion. “She was desperate for it.”

The men surrounding them hooted and jeered at the words, at their summary destruction of Lillian. The chortles and shouts turning into gasps when Alec moved, a dog loosed from his chain.

He lifted Hawkins from his feet by the collar of his elaborate topcoat as though he weighed nothing. “That was a mistake.”

“Put me down,” Hawkins squeaked, his hands clawing at Alec’s fist.

West rose. “Not here, Warnick. Not in front of the world.”

Alec tossed the vermin to the ground. Looming over Hawkins, he said, once more, “How much?”

Hawkins scrambled to his feet. “You can’t just manhandle me. I am—”

“I don’t care one bit who you are. How much for the picture?”

“You’ll never get it,” Hawkins spat, high-pitched and terrified, filled with false bravado. “I wouldn’t take your money if you offered ten times as much, you Scottish thug. You’re a perfect match. As cheap as she is. Just luckier.”

The words reminded Alec of his intentions, that there had been a time when he’d actually planned to force this bastard to marry Lily.

As though he’d ever let him near her again.

As though he’d ever allow him to breathe the same air as her.

“I have been more than polite,” he said, stalking Hawkins back as the men assembled chattered and grumbled.

A voice rose over the crowd. “Twenty pounds on the Scot!”

Alec ignored it. “I was willing to pay you for the painting. A fair price. More than fair.”

“No one will take that wager. Look at him! Fists the size of hams!”

Those fists clenched and unclenched.

“I’d pay just to see the fight!”

“I don’t put it past him to force Hawkins to the altar!”

“Ten quid on that!”

Hawkins could not keep his mouth shut. “As though I’d take lowborn, lonely, sad Lillian Hargrove. As though a genius marries a muse. I could have anyone. I could have royalty.”

“Take ’im to the ring, Warnick! Show ’im your displeasure!”

“I don’t need the ring.” Alec wasn’t displeased. He was murderous. “Listen to me and listen well,” he said, low and barely discernible through his angry brogue. “Commit my words to memory. Because I want you to spend the next two weeks wondering how I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?” Hawkins was terrified.

“Destroy you.”

Hawkins blinked, and Alec saw his throat working, as though he was considering a reply. Finally, he shook his head, turned on his heel, and ran—straight through the curtain that marked the doorway to the club, and out into the London night, chased by the laughter and jeers of the rest of the membership of the gaming hell.

After several long seconds, King appeared at Alec’s shoulder. “It seems he is not an imbecile after all. Running was a good choice.”

I plan to run.

Lily’s words echoed through him, full of desolation, reminding him of another who had run and been destroyed.

He shook his head. “That man drives her from London over my decaying corpse.”

West joined them. “Then you no longer intend him to wed the girl?”

The words summoned an image of Lily in Hawkins’s arms, her hair spilling down her back, tangled in his fingers. Her lips on his. And Alec wanted to upend the nearest card table.

He settled on, “Not for all the blunt in London.”

“What then?”

“It is no matter who she marries. Only that she does.”

King and West looked to each other, then back to Alec, now firmly resolved in his modified plan. He waited for one of them to speak. When they did not, he said, “What of it?”

After a long moment, West replied. “Nothing. It sounds an excellent plan.”

King raised a brow. “I cannot imagine how it could possibly go wrong.”

Alec heard the sarcasm in the other man’s tone, and in scathing Gaelic, told him precisely what he could do with himself, before turning on his heel and heading for the club’s boxing ring.

He could do with a fight.