All Scot and Bothered Page 8

  But he’d no grounds upon which to exert his authority, because no one had been involved in illegal activity at the time of his arrival.

  They’d been in class. Their papers in order.

  But who did they think they were fooling?

  When the carriage halted, Ramsay hesitated to disembark. He buttoned his long jacket over his chest and hips, waiting for his arousal to cool.

  Why her? he wondered. Why now? After so many years of keeping his appetites leashed in chains of iron, why did his body seem to strain against them? For a soulless she-devil, no less?

  Her and one other. Cecelia Teague.

  It’d been three months since he’d last seen her, and the comely woman still often permeated his thoughts.

  When he was on the bench, he’d remember her mouth sucking softly on her finger, dragging her teeth across the pad to scrape the last vestiges of chocolate. Once at a debate in the House of Lords, when men bandied insults and screamed over one another, he’d longed for someone with her gentle wisdom. If only these angry, volatile men could make a study of her respectful reprobation.

  Aye, he summoned Miss Teague to his mind entirely too often. Christ, he hardly knew the woman. And she was certainly no fit companion for a Lord Chief Justice. University-educated? Opinionated and independent. While she was agreeable, she was by no means demure. And she made no qualms about her indulgences. For all he knew she could be an alcoholic or a fiend for any number of vices.

  Her cherubic features could hide a deviant.

  His mother had certainly carried an air of innocence about her, and she’d lived her life in such a way that she’d given the whore of Babylon a run for her money.

  Or perhaps the Scarlet Lady.

  Hell, they might have been friends, Gwendolyn Atherton and Henrietta Thistledown.

  And then there had been Matilda. The last woman he’d been tempted to trust. Ramsay pinched the bridge of his nose as a headache bloomed behind his eyelids. What a disaster that had been.

  Still … Cecelia had none of the mischief or deviousness that had sparkled in the eyes of his mother. Nor had she any of the courtly manners and skill at artifice Matilda had displayed.

  She was so unabashedly charming. So smooth and soft and lovely.

  Perhaps …

  “My lord Ramsay?”

  He started and looked to his left at the footman waiting uneasily holding the carriage door ajar.

  “We’re here, my lord. And the Lord Chancellor is awaiting you in his study.”

  “Aye,” he said curtly, pushing all thoughts of the troubling Miss Teague out of his mind as he disembarked the coach. Ramsay mounted the steps two at a time, eager to establish a plan of action against their new adversary.

  The Scarlet Lady could not be a hydra, sprouting two heads for every one that was severed. Eventually she would be vanquished, and he needed to be the man to do it if he wanted to secure the appointment to the next chancellorship.

  Christ, perhaps the current Lord Chancellor had been right to suggest Ramsay should seriously consider getting a wife. Some respectable duty-bound woman with whom to beget a brood and to further shore up his respectability.

  His gut twisted at the idea, rejecting it as violently as he would a toxin.

  He’d never meant to marry. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to have another mistress, not after last time.

  And so he’d do what he’d always done. Work his mind to exhaustion, and then when that work was finished, he’d punish his body with exertion until he was too fatigued to stand.

  As he mounted the stairs to the very top, something told Ramsay that even when he collapsed into his bed after this punishing day, a pair of crimson lips would haunt his dreams.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I cannot believe you invited him to dinner!” Cecelia’s whisper would have been a scream were her throat less constricted by panic.

  She’d been in the middle of catching up the Red Rogues on the harrowing events of the day when the butler announced Lord Ramsay’s arrival. She’d yanked both the Rogues into Alexandra’s private parlor at the Redmayne Belgravia terrace just in time to slam the door as Ramsay’s wide shoulders rounded the corner.

  Even the soft sages and calming earth tones of the sophisticated solarium had little effect on her as she held Alexandra in her clutches. Her fingers curled like talons on her friend’s puffed sleeves as her trembles shook them both.

  “Cecil, what’s gotten into you? I’ve never seen you like this!” Alexandra regarded her with a horrified astonishment one would save for someone who’d suddenly begun to leak blood from her eyes.

  Francesca stood vigil by the door, cracking it open slightly to spy upon the men gathering in the great hall. “Have you forgotten the part where your brutish brother-in-law is endeavoring to hang poor Cecil in the public square? I imagine that has something to do with her current overwrought state.”

  Alexandra gently attempted to pry Cecelia’s fingers from the meat of her arms. “Well … in my defense, I posted this dinner invitation weeks ago.”

  “You could have warned me he would be here!” Cecelia released the Duchess of Redmayne, putting her hand to her own forehead, then to her cheeks, not finding the fever she was certain to fall plague to at any moment.

  “Until five minutes ago, I wasn’t aware of the need,” Alexandra reasoned. “As you said, he is my brother-in-law. Besides, it might have raised his suspicions were I to retract the invitation … don’t you think?”

  “I’m too distraught to think.” Cecelia wrapped her arms around her own middle as she whirled to pace the room. She realized she was being hysterical, but the day’s events had rattled her composure so greatly, she’d been aching for the safety of the Rogues’ company. She’d used up her allotment of composure for the day, and she’d been relying on their collective wisdom and encouragement, expecting to take the evening to discuss her rather pressing problem and to make some decisions.

  Now, it seemed, the wolf was at the door once again, and if he discovered her real identity, there was no telling what he would do.

  “What are they doing out there?” Cecelia asked Francesca anxiously.

  “Oh, the usual sort of masculine greeting rituals,” Francesca scoffed, her scarlet skirts nearly catching in the door as she closed it behind her. “Shaking hands, slapping backs, and comparing the standards and pedigrees of their horseflesh, no doubt.” She tossed her carefully arranged crimson ringlets in the fashion of one more used to a stable than a salon. “I’ve a mind to join them.”

  “We should, I suppose,” Alexandra urged. She straightened the cameo on her high-necked gown of shimmering peach silk, which contrasted most strikingly with her neat auburn hair and warm chocolate eyes.

  “I cannot face him,” Cecelia squeaked, her knees giving out. She collapsed onto a velvet chair in a puddle of overwrought curves and shimmering sky-blue skirts. “If he recognizes me, you might as well start weaving my noose.”

  Alexandra placed a hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps it’s better that you see him first here at Redmayne Place. If he does recognize you, you’ll have all of us to protect you.” She stepped to the cabinet, removing a crystal decanter, three glasses, and a bottle of their most potent Ravencroft scotch. Once it was poured, Alexandra took a seat at Cecelia’s side and offered a glass.

  “I don’t even think Redmayne can protect me from his elder brother,” she said glumly.

  “He would if I asked him.” Alexandra’s lips twisted wryly. “But perhaps we should think of how else we might extract you from your predicament.”

  “Let’s,” Francesca agreed, pushing the chocolates toward Cecelia. “First have a few of these. They go splendidly with scotch and will help you think.”

  Cecelia plucked one from the dish and sank her teeth into the decadent truffle, allowing it to melt into her mouth and spill a blissful velvet sweetness over her tongue. “I love you,” she sighed, trying not to think of the night she’d consumed the same truf
fles in front of Ramsay.

  “I love you, too, darling.”

  “I was speaking to the chocolate.”

  Francesca’s balled-up glove hit her in the shoulder, evoking a much-needed laugh.

  Gratitude suffused her as she observed her friends. The fiercest and most fantastic relationships she’d cultivated over the years. They were her family, and she did, indeed, love them dearly.

  Francesca had become Frank, the vibrant-hued, fearless outdoorswoman with a lithe, boyish figure set apart by pert, elven features and emerald-green eyes.

  Alexandra was Alexander or Alex, the studious idealist with a rebellious streak and more excellent ideas than she had freckles, which were numerous. With a bounty of mahogany hair and a perfect formula of physical proportions, she was the beauty of their roguish threesome.

  Cecelia, or Cecil, was their treasurer, their confidante, and their mediator, good with … good with numbers and hopeless at just about everything else.

  This was the company in which she felt the most secure.

  Alexandra refilled Cecelia’s drink before she’d even realized she’d emptied the first glass. “I’d very much like to meet your new ward—Phoebe, is it?”

  “And I’d like to see this School for Cultured Young Ladies,” Francesca added. “I wonder, what do you plan to do with it?”

  “Therein lies the question.” Cecelia stared into her glass as though the answers could be etched into the crystal beneath the whiskey. “I’ll look after the child, of course. She deserves a safe home, and stability, and all the affection and education I can provide. I need to find out who her father is, if only to protect her from him.” She took another sip. “The … business, though. I haven’t a clue what to do with it yet.”

  “You could sell for a tidy sum, I imagine,” Alexandra suggested.

  “I could, but there’s Henrietta’s murder to consider. I know I wasn’t acquainted with her, but she was family, and she did so much for me whilst asking nothing more than a letter in return. I feel a responsibility to at least make certain her memory is done some justice, and her killer found.”

  “Her secrets could get you killed, as well, Cecil,” Francesca said ominously. “I’m not certain it’s all worth it, are you?”

  Cecelia pondered that for long enough to realize there was no simple conclusion.

  “Could the secret have something to do with Phoebe?” the Duchess of Redmayne finally inquired. “Or perhaps these missing young girls Lord Ramsay has accused Henrietta and you—er, the Scarlet Lady—of procuring?”

  “Could be both,” Cecelia sighed. “Or one of the other. I know she was afraid of an organization called the Crimson Council. Have you heard of it?”

  Francesca stiffened but said nothing.

  Her interest piqued, Cecelia asked, “Do you know something about them, Frank?”

  “The Crimson Council strikes a chord in my memory…” Francesca trailed off, a dark mask of unease settling across her features. “… from long ago.”

  “Long ago as in … when your family was massacred?” Alexandra sank down next to Francesca and propped her chin into her palm, resting her elbow on her knee. It was the posture of a student, not a duchess. She’d certainly been one longer than the other. “Frank, is it possible that if the Crimson Council has something to do with organized crime in London, it could be connected to the deaths of the entire Cavendish household, your household, and also Cecelia’s infamous aunt?”

  Francesca shook her head, but Cecelia had seen just that gesture enough times to realize it was not in denial, but in distress. “It’s entirely possible. Which means, Cecil, that you could be in greater danger from them than Lord Ramsay could ever pose.”

  Cecelia downed the rest of her drink, trying to reason through her panic.

  “Perhaps it is best Piers talk to his brother,” Alexandra suggested. “Convince Ramsay you’re both on the same side before the truth comes out.”

  Cecelia shook her head, a frigid chill sliding down her spine at the memory of their interaction. “You didn’t see him today, Alex. He so much as said he’d like to see my neck stretched on the gallows. And that was before I … I antagonized him.”

  “You?” Alexandra gaped. “Antagonize?”

  “You?” Francesca echoed. “The same Cecelia Teague who drafted a peace treaty the one time Alex and I quarreled in school?”

  “I don’t know what got into me today.” Cecelia marveled at her own actions. “He was so disdainful and condescending. Even cruel in his self-righteousness, and I couldn’t help but rise to the occasion. Though I suppose I don’t blame him of being ill mannered if he suspected me of hurting children.”

  Alexandra’s lips twisted into a grimace of regret. “Those are traits of Ramsay’s that do not always ingratiate him to Redmayne. They’ve a complicated relationship as brothers, though it seems to have improved since our marriage. My husband has mentioned that Lord Ramsay’s upbringing was even more … difficult than his own. In fact, I gather that Piers rather pities his brother, though I’ve never inquired as to why.” She chewed on her lip as she thought.

  “I don’t know that Ramsay should discover you just now, Cecelia, until I’m able to discuss the matter with my husband. I can’t say how the Lord Chief Justice would react if he recognized you. He is quite … stalwart in his principles.”

  “Stubborn and inflexible, you mean,” Francesca supplied.

  “Also that.”

  “What we need is more time and more information,” Francesca declared. “I say we go to Miss Henrietta’s School for Cultured Young Ladies tomorrow and do a bit of snooping around. Perhaps interrogate your new employees.”

  “You just want to see a gentleman’s gambling hell.” Alexandra nudged Francesca with a playful elbow.

  “I’ll not deny it,” Francesca admitted with a sideways smirk. “But we can use the opportunity to figure out a little bit more about what might have happened to Henrietta and what sort of dangerous liaisons she’d made. It’s most important, I think that you do what you can to decipher that codex right away. If there’s anything about the Crimson Council, it’s likely in there.”

  “I was thinking the self-same thing,” Cecelia agreed, picturing the disconcerting book she’d locked in her safe.

  “I’ll make your excuses to the dinner party,” Alexandra offered. “We’ll say you’re beset by a headache and had to retire, and then we’ll all go out to the school tomorrow morning and see what we can learn.”

  “A capital plan.” Cecelia drained the last of her scotch, feeling immediately better now that she didn’t have to face her situation alone. “I can’t thank you two enough.”

  “What ho, wife?” Piers Gedrick Atherton, the Duke of Redmayne, strode through the parlor door, his scarred features made less disconcerting by a close-cropped raven beard and the tender smile softening his hard mouth.

  Alexandra beamed at her husband as though the three vicious slashes across the left side of his face didn’t exist.

  Cecelia thought it a miracle that the duchess, who’d once been tortured by the mere touch of a man, now found herself happily married to the Terror of Torcliff. A duke as large, menacing, and dark as the devil.

  It was likewise as strange to see such a primal beast as Redmayne treat his wife with a gentility bordering on worship.

  “Forgive the early intrusion,” Redmayne said, addressing them all. “We are dowdy old men who are much too serious and yearn to be part of your jollity.” He moved with the loose-limbed grace of the exotic predators he famously hunted before his life-altering encounter with a jaguar had lent him a new respect for the wild.

  “You are the opposite of a dowdy old man and well you know it.” Alexandra rolled her eyes at her husband. He was a man in his prime, barely past five and thirty. Strong and fit and much too feral for a duke.

  Upon reaching the arm of Alexandra’s chaise, Redmayne bent his dark head to place a kiss on her temple. His lips lingered there longer than was str
ictly proper in mixed company, as if he couldn’t help himself from savoring the scent of her hair.

  Cecelia watched them with a certain melancholy longing twisting inside of her, until Redmayne’s words registered with a spike of panic.

  We.

  He’d not intruded alone.

  A tall shadow in the doorway drew her attention.

  Lord Ramsay had followed his brother, and now blocked Cecelia’s only route of escape.

  Blast and damn!

  Unable to look at him, Cecelia’s panicked gaze collided with Alexandra’s, and her friend stood nervously, giving her one surreptitious shake of her head. A warning not to do or say anything to draw attention to herself.

  Ramsay melted from the shadows of the door as Francesca and Cecelia stood to perform a curtsy.

  “My lady,” he said, addressing Francesca. “Miss Teague.” Eyes the color of an Antarctic glacier found Cecelia and lingered, locking her feet in place as he bent at the waist in the stiff echo of a bow.

  “How do you do?” As she executed a second curtsy, the pace of Cecelia’s breath doubled even as her corset seemed to shrink several inches, restricting her lungs to an impossible degree.

  Was this why women fainted? Was it possible to be so cold as to shiver while standing so close to the fire?

  The cold, she realized, emanated not from the air, but from Ramsay. From some hollow place behind his frigid eyes.

  Eyes that had still not left her.

  Did he recognize her? Would the next words from his lips condemn her?

  Time seemed to bend around Cecelia as she looked over at him, or rather up at him. Of course, it couldn’t have been for longer than a fleeting moment. But that moment had all the impact and hues of the fireworks on Guy Fawkes Day.

  Not because he was handsome. Nothing about the fierce and brutal planes of his face was meant to please the eye. His chin and jaw were much too square and thrust forward with unyielding menace. His tall forehead, crimped with an eternal scowl, shadowed his impossibly light, unforgiving eyes.