Page 16 of Tender Blackguard

Lady Katherine Blackwell, Alastair’s cousin, was being escorted tonight by her bodyguard and soon-to-be husband, Mason Hale, a seasoned East End bruiser of undefeatable skill. Alastair had met Lady Katherine and Hale only twice before and not under the best of circumstances.

By no fault of their own, Lady Katherine and her younger brother, the current Duke of Northmoor, had become embroiled in a scheme perpetuated by Lord Shelbourne, a confirmed member of the brotherhood. Having first learned of his cousins’ entanglement with Lord Shelbourne shortly before the prior marquess’s death, Alastair hadn’t understood the full threat to the Blackwell siblings until sometime later. By the time he’d located them, they’d already hired the former bare-knuckle boxer as a formidable bodyguard.

Unfortunately, Shelbourne had been obsessively invested in his nefarious plot to develop a special drug that could put a person into a dreamlike state while keeping their physical functionality intact. The prior Duke of Northmoor had been known for his extensive knowledge of herbology and chemistry. Shelbourne had deceived and manipulated Northmoor into working for him. When the duke suspected Shelbourne’s ignoble purpose, he was killed and his work was stolen.

But Shelbourne couldn’t get the formula to work on his own, so he decided to force assistance from the duke’s young heir, who was reported to be an even greater genius than his father. Luckily, Shelbourne had failed more than once at kidnapping the boy for his purposes.

Alastair was already conducting his own investigations into Shelbourne’s activities when the lord abducted Lady Katherine in an attempt to coerce her brother’s cooperation. Alastair had fortunately been able to assist Hale in recovering his cousin and dealt with the authorities’ inquiries after Shelbourne killed himself rather than face the consequences of his actions and risk exposure of his comrades.

Based on what Alastair had come to understand from his father’s writings about their strict rules of secrecy, he didn’t believe Lord Shelbourne’s activities or his involvement with the Blackwells had been known to the other members of their little sect. Hale, however, had not easily accepted that assurance. That man was a brutish sort in physicality and in temperament. And he took his responsibility to the Blackwells’ safety very seriously.

Alastair couldn’t fault him for it. In fact, he was grateful, since it was his sire who’d gotten their father mixed up with Shelbourne in the first place. Knowing his cousins were being well protected and by such a capable adversary was a significant relief.

When he’d gotten the note from Lady Katherine a few days ago politely suggesting they get together soon, he suspected the focus of the conversation would likely turn to their shared enemies. After his cousin was saved from Shelbourne’s clutches, Alastair had tried to explain only what was necessary for them to understand the full extent of the danger inherent in pursuing the matter further.

Brute force—though impressive—wouldn’t be effective against men with the kind of power and dominion possessed by the brotherhood. Alastair had done his best to convince them to let him handle the issue his way. Alone.

He suspected he hadn’t been as successful as he’d hoped.

“Blast it,” he muttered as the razor nicked his skin in his inattention. With his focus directed elsewhere, he quickly dapped the bead of blood with a handkerchief before folding the cloth and setting it aside.

Hale would no doubt batter him for information Alastair couldn’t and wouldn’t share. He couldn’t afford to have any part of his plan disrupted. To the remaining members of the brotherhood and the world of London at large, he needed to fulfill the role laid out for him by his sire when he’d taken a poor young maid into the bowels of his lair and brutally raped her.

His mother had never recovered from the pain and indignity of that night and after, when she’d been forced to marry her attacker and the months following as she’d swelled with a child she never wanted.

After dropping his razor into a bowl of water, Alastair picked up a steaming wet towel and held it to his face. The familiar mixture of rage, loathing, and disgust stirred inside him.

There was nothing he could do to help his mother—there never had been—and she’d eventually been liberated from the pain and fury that had consumed her. And his wretched, evil sire had found an end as well, though not one of his choosing. The prior marquess’s penchant for indiscretion caught up with him in Venice as his life became less valuable than his silence.

It didn’t matter.

Alastair would do whatever it took to ensure justice finally befall those who so rightfully deserved it.

Lost in the turmoil of his thoughts, it took him a bit to register the sound of knocking at his door. The impatient nature of the sound suggested it had been going on for some time.

A glance at the clock told him he had barely half an hour before his guests arrived. There was no time for interruptions. Striding swiftly across the room, he tossed the cooling towel over his shoulder and opened the door.

Mrs. Evans. Likely the only person in the household who’d dare interrupt him while he was fighting to control his temper. Not that she or anyone else would know of his current state of mind. But the woman did have a peculiar gift for being present at the most inopportune moments.

“What is it?” he snapped when she didn’t immediately speak.

Her focus had been trained intently on his face, but at his words, she blinked and her focus faltered for a split second as the direction of her gaze slipped below his chin before flying back to his face.

“I apologize for the interruption, my lord, but I need to confirm if you’d like to greet your guests in the parlor or the formal drawing room?”

Her tone was as firm and steady as ever, but Alastair sensed something uncertain in the woman.

When her level gaze flickered briefly downward once again, he realized with a rush of heat that it was his bared torso which seemed to be causing the woman’s uncharacteristic disconcertion. She was trying very hard not to ogle him as he stood there in his breeches and nothing else.

In an entirely inappropriate turn of thought, he suddenly wondered if the “Mrs.” in her name was an indication of true marital status or simply the respectful address afforded her as housekeeper. The idea that she might have a husband somewhere made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. And irritated.

“The parlor is fine, Mrs. Evans.”

“I’ll ensure the room is prepared.”

“I know you will.”

When she didn’t immediately curtsy and walk away, he lowered his chin. “Is there anything else?”

---