Page 5 of A Lady's Lesson in Scandal
Millie took a measured step away from Patricia. ‘The viscount should accustom himself to disappointment, madame. As should you.’ Her stepmother was sure to make Millie pay for this later. But the moment was too delicious not to enjoy.
‘Remember this, Millicent. The moment you sealed your fate.’
Millie smiled, though she worried her skin might crack from the effort. ‘I’m counting on it.’ She turned and walked away, her legs only shaking a little.
2
Major General Beaufort Drake, Earl of Tetly, scarred war hero, private investigator for the prime minister, fearsome warrior, loyal friend to few, and deadly foe to many, had suffered more than most men. Tortured at the hands of Afghanistan’s cruellest warriors, his body bore the evidence of grievous wounds. A wicked scar carved him from forehead to chin in a diagonal slash of roped tissue, turning once rugged features into a gruesome mask. A beautifully fitted suit hid even more brutal evidence of the pain he’d endured.
His soul was steeped in sin, and his heart had fossilised years ago. But Drake would gladly relive every nightmare that created him into a cruel, cold, deadly weapon if it granted him freedom from his current circumstances.
Trussed up in his best suit.
Sipping watered-down ratafia.
Avoiding the curious and horrified gazes of the beau monde’s bluest of bloods.
Cursing the ache in his leg currently reaching a crescendo of pulsing agony.
Cooling his heels at the edge of the Devil’s most dastardly affair.
A ball.
He repressed a shudder.
Give him fire-heated blades, rusty daggers, the rack. Anything but a soiree of England’s most pampered, pompous lords and ladies. But the prime minister needed his best man for a mission, and Drake always answered the call, regardless of how treacherous the terrain.
This glittering battlefield was diabolical in the extreme.
If one more mercenary mama thrust her clearly horrified daughter in his face, hoping for a match with the Earl of Tetly, he might be sick in the potted palms framing the ballroom. It was unthinkable how easily a matron could sell her child to the highest title or largest bank account in the room. Even if the man behind the money and title was a heartless dragon. A monster his friend Killian often likened to Drake.
Drake wouldn’t wish himself upon any of these delicate virginal sacrifices, nor would he ever choose to suffer their company. He was not here to dance. Or flirt. Or seek out a wife.
He was here to find a killer.
‘Don’t look now, but another young miss is heading this way, led by none other than the Duchess of Dorsett.’ The man next to him whistled low. ‘I may have been in France for the last two years, but even across the Channel, Lady Winterbourne’s reputation is renowned.’ General Reynard Renquist once fought under Drake’s leadership. His older brother, Major General William Renquist, Marquess of Stoneway, was a fellow commander in the Anglo-Afghan war. They had all been taken prisoner together with their lead commander, Lieutenant General Robert Killian. Months of hideous torture nearly destroyed them. But it also forged friendships extending beyondthe bonds of brotherhood. Theirs was a kinship created in the fires of hell, amalgamating the four men like tempered steel.
Drake had been working with Lieutenant General Killian on their current mission, tracking a murderous group of men operating a sex ring. In Killian’s absence, Drake was glad for Reynard’s return from France and his assistance on this mission.
The unfortunate Lieutenant General Killian had fallen prey to a terrible tragedy. Marriage. To the infuriating Miss Hannah Simmons. Drake would never forgive Killian for succumbing to the deadliest of all ailments. Love.
Horse shit!
Love was a lie.
Drake huffed out a disgusted sigh. He supposed for a man like Killian, chasing a beautiful woman across Europe on an extended honeymoon tour might be preferable to ferreting out a killer amongst England’s most elite. The opposite was true for Drake. Not that he wished ill upon his friend, but Drake secretly hoped Killian ate some bad meat or perhaps developed sea sickness. Nothing lethal, just painful enough to ruin his disgustingly romantic holiday. After all, Killian had abandoned Drake to muddle through this mess of an assignment alone. All for the sake of a woman.
He shuddered at the thought of willingly strapping on the shackles of matrimony. Though Prime Minister Russell was making veiled threats about Drake finally submitting to the inevitable. Apparently, Killian started quite the trend. A married lord was far less suspicious than a single one. The prime minister believed a wife would make it easier for Drake to continue his clandestine investigations into the gentry’s worst crimes.
Russell can bugger off!
Drake drained his cup, forgetting for a moment what filled it. He winced at the disgustingly sweet drink. The naïve ideal of love and marriage had tempted him once, and the resulting betrayal almost destroyed him. He would not willingly enter into a contract with any creature as mercurial as a woman. Instead, he would prove Prime Minister Russell’s theory wrong by using speed and efficiency to capture his prey, not hiding behind the skirts of some duplicitous female.
I dare any married blighter to be a more effective executor of the law.
‘I’m glad you are here, Reynard. It’s certainly nice to have someone with me I can trust since Killian stuck his neck in the Parson’s noose.’ Drake continued to scan the crowd, refusing to let his gaze linger on Miss Whittenburg, her bright hair a beacon in the crowded ballroom.
Reynard chuckled. ‘God save us from such a horrific fate, eh old friend?’
