It would start with a sly whisper that would soon become a roar, and his name would be on the lips of ladies as they met in their drawing room, and perhaps even the men as they dined and gambled at their clubs. They would wonder at his daring, and if he had stopped at a kiss. No one would believe a man as wicked and unprincipled as himself would leave her after just a kiss.
With merely a few words, this creature had linked their fates together.
She dashed around the fountain and peered in the direction where the ladies had hovered in time to see their skirts disappearing around the corner. A light, joyous laugh came from her—she clearly did not seem to mind the only path stretching before her was vilification by the ton. He would only get a few tongue clucks and an admonishing glance that might last for a couple days. After all, a rake will do what a rake will do—seduce and despoil virgins. But her…what recovery would there be for her?
His curiosity grew, and when David made to talk, Nicolas held up a hand, halting him. He did not want to miss anything. The more he saw, the more he would be able to break it apart, analyze, calculate the value to him, understand her motivations and exactly what he should do about it.
She whirled around to Fanny. “They have gone!”
Her friend fisted a hand on her rounded hips. “So you knew they were there?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Maryann, they fell right into your palm! Was this what you meant when you said your wicked plans included Nicolas St. Ives? I believe I had cautioned you against going down such a path!”
“This was not the initial plan, but I daresay it might work out very well indeed.”
“I think you are playing a dangerous game. You do not know the manner of man he is—”
“What is there to know? He is a feckless rake who gambles and races recklessly. He associates with other useless gentlemen of society.”
A dark wash of anticipation suffused Nicolas. So, you think me useless? I’ll take pleasure in rectifying that assumption, Lady Maryann.
“There is a rumor that he beds a different woman every night with no consistent lover or mistress,” she continued, rolling her eyes. “There is something about him in the scandal sheets every week. So what is one more?”
“And if you are expected to marry him?”
“Marry the marquess?”
She said that with such astonishment, he could see entrapping him had never been a part of her plan.
“Papa would not allow that. His reputation is too diabolical.”
“Maryann, the gossips will say he was in your room. Alone. Your parents—”
“I know,” she said with an aching touch of regret. “I loathed the thought of hurting them with my actions, but I cannot marry Lord Stamford. I cannot, Fanny.”
“Is he that awful?”
“If he had even an ounce of decency, I might have married him.”
“I hope the rumors will be enough for him to end all talk of marriage with your father,” Fanny said, reaching for Lady Maryann’s hand to offer a supportive squeeze. “And I dearly hope the marquess will not be angry when he hears of it.”
“St. Ives will lose nothing,” she said a bit sadly, as if recognizing everything that she stood to lose—her reputation and her parents’ trust. “When has society ever condemned a man for actions that can lead to a young lady’s ruination? I daresay he will not even give a fig.”
“I have never known you to lie to your parents. What will you tell them when they demand the truth of the matter?”
She snapped her fingers. “And that is the brilliant nature of my plan! I will tell the truth and deny that he ever visited my chamber. Papa cannot approach him and ask him to do the honorable thing. The man is innocent. The only way would be to work to stop the rumors, and though Papa is influential…the power of idle tongues is far superior. So I get what I want without really embroiling myself with any libertine!” She cast her friend a mirthful look. “Admit it…I am wickedly brilliant.”
“Yes… you are,” Nicolas murmured to himself with amusement and a pulse of fascination. “Clever indeed.”
“Good God,” David muttered. “Do you mean to say this lady is not known to you? That she deliberately used the reputation you have fostered over the years to achieve her own villainous end?”
Nicolas smiled. “Hardly villainous. Shrewd.”
“You sound as if you admire her ridiculous plan.”
“I cannot tell what I am feeling.”
They watched as she and her friend looped their hands and strolled toward the eastern section of the lawns, their heads bent close together in conversation.
“This is a disaster,” David said. “Surely you see that.”
A warning tingle tightened the back of Nicolas’s neck. In the distance, she released her friend to twirl, lifting her face to the sky. Her expression was that of one who had gained some sort of victory…freedom. That expression revealed a longing that was painful to witness.
What do you long for, my brave little minx? “How little do you know,” he said softly.
“Her life is now in danger,” David said tightly. “Do you see it as clearly as I do?”
“Perhaps.” He truly did not want to think about the far-reaching implications of her ruse. He had resolutely concentrated on seeking justice for Arianna, even at the cost of pursuing a family for himself. No distraction had been allowed. He had been ruthless, exacting, and disciplined.
And he had seen results. One of the men responsible for her death had been brought to justice, and another two were on the hook; he only needed to reel them in. He had aimed his vengeance where it would do the most damage: their reputations and wealth. Nicholas played the snake…the devil in their midst, without these idle sons of society understanding the true nature of the man they had let close.
He felt a stir of discomfort, too deep and unreachable from within him to properly understand its existence. But of one thing he was certain. This lady…this audacious woman who had been bold enough to use him for her end, he owed her nothing.
David slapped his hand against the bark of the tree. “There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. Did you not get the note Rhys sent you?”
Rhys Tremayne, the recently minted Viscount Montrose, was amongst the few men Nicolas called friend. Rhys was rumored to be part owner of a gambling hell, The Asylum, in the bowels of London. The man was a purveyor of secrets and dealt with the peddling of information on the black market. He had sent a note to Nicolas only a week ago, with a warning to be vigilant. “Yes, I got it.”
“Rhys said a gentleman walked into The Asylum…a man whose identity was hidden, and he asked one question—what is your weakness. That says everything.” David scowled. “You must admit the duke’s suspicions have been aroused. What if he was the one asking after your downfall?”