Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat. Deb MarloweЧитать онлайн книгу.
like that.
She drew away from the window. He could not escape her tonight. Lady Dayle was throwing a dinner party and expected him. It was time she prepared herself for the confrontation ahead. A silk gown would be her armour tonight, her weapons nothing more than determination and a smile. But perhaps she would carry along her chisel as well.
‘That’s all I know, I swear on my mother’s grave!’
Charles tightened his grip, choking off the remainder of the man’s lies, along with most of his breath. ‘Your mother is alive and well and living in Kensington,’ he said in disgust. ‘How do you think I tracked you down?’
Like her son, the mother of the editor of the Augur liked money. Charles wasn’t complaining, however. Greed was far easier to get past than radical fervour—which still blocked any progress with the Oracle’s editor.
‘That’s all you can give me?’ Charles released the man, allowing him to slump back against the wall. ‘A small, dark, wiry man. No name? No idea for whom he worked?’
‘No, no,’ Mr Mills said, rubbing his throat. ‘He came around at night, left me a fat file of papers—all dealing with you.’
‘And a fat purse, I’ll wager.’ Charles snorted. ‘Do you still have the file?’
‘Aye.’ The man turned sullen now. ‘I left it at my mother’s place.’
No wonder the old woman had looked at him so strangely. ‘What, exactly, was in this file?’ Charles asked.
Now the little editor was eyeing him up and down. ‘A right long reckoning of your career as a hellraiser, my lord.’ He chuckled. ‘And may I salute your creative thinking too! We never got to print half the juiciest stuff.’
‘You’re sure this small, dark man never mentioned where he got this file?’
‘No, it was always “my employer” wants this, “my employer” wants that. But whoever it is—it seems they have been watching you a long time.’
Charles had come here expecting to solve this mystery; instead it was only growing deeper. Frustrated, he sat abruptly down upon a nearby chair. His opponent watched him warily as he drew a purse from his pocket. He tossed it on to the scarred desk the man was obviously using as a temporary office. ‘That’s a sign of good faith. I believe you have told me everything you can, and I believe that if you remember anything else, you will contact me right away.’
The scoundrel snatched it up. ‘I swear, that’s all of it.’
Charles drew out another, fatter purse. ‘This I will give you if you agree to print another story about me. A remorseful story. A favourable story.’
The man weighed the first purse in one hand while eyeing the other. ‘No insult intended, but your randy youth is the most interesting thing you’ve got. What else is there to draw the readers in?’
‘The truth. An apology for the damage you’ve done me. I don’t know, something about the good I’ve accomplished in Parliament, the charities I support, something. Do your own research this time, man. Write a real story.’
He nodded agreement and reached for the second purse.
Charles tucked it back into his coat. ‘You will receive it on the day the story is printed.’ He stood. ‘I want that file delivered to me tomorrow.’
Without waiting for a response he turned and strode out. Once outside the man’s dingy little hideaway, Charles vaulted back into his curricle, took the reins from his groom and set his bays off sharply. He had several hours before he had to be back home in time for his mother’s blasted dinner party. The idea had him groaning out loud. A house full of people. It was the last thing he wanted when this whole mess had him feeling so desperate.
Despite his best efforts with the ton, despite his obvious perusal of the available debs, despite his intensifying courtship of Miss Ashford, the tide of public opinion was turning against him again.
He wasn’t a madman. Someone, for some unknown reason, was orchestrating this siege against him, but this time the tactics had changed. Nothing new was in the papers. Instead, the attacks came in the form of vague rumour and untraceable innuendo. He was living a masquerade, people whispered. He hadn’t reformed, he’d just taken his illicit activities underground. He was lulling Parliament, pulling the wool over society’s eyes. He was a secret radical, a closet Catholic, a Whig sympathiser, a bacchanal, or an opium addict, depending on whom you spoke with, and whose friend of a friend they knew.
Charles would have laughed if he hadn’t known that the truth about himself was far worse than anything society could come up with. And he would have realised the serious nature of the situation, nipped it in the bud earlier, if he hadn’t been obsessed with Sophie.
A discreet cough from his groom recalled his attention to the road. Just in time too. He pulled his pair up as traffic slowed at the crossing of the Westminster Bridge. He was doing it again. Obsessing. And on the road, no less.
He sighed. It was still early, but he could not go home, it would be under siege, buried in a flurry of activity as his mother prepared for her party. As his wheels met terra firma once more, he turned the curricle smartly and set off for his club.
It appeared that even this small pleasure was to be denied him. There was a crowd of gentlemen at White’s. Charles pushed his way through the crowd, looking for an empty seat. He finally found one, at a corner table. The vacancy was probably owing to the cloud of gloom that hung over the pair of occupants, nearly as tangible as the heavy haze of smoke in the air.
Charles paused as he grew closer. It was that infamous pair of his erstwhile friends, Matthews and Henley. What the hell.
‘Gentlemen,’ he bit out. ‘Do you mind if I join the ranks of your dismal consortium?’
Matthews did not even look up. Henley rolled one bleary eye at him and waved for him to take the remaining seat.
Charles dropped into the chair and waved at a passing porter. Glancing at the empty brandy bottles still on the table, he sent the man off for another.
A brooding silence reigned in the corner, which suited Charles perfectly. A swirl of troubles floated through his head. He had to focus, had to find a way to salvage what was left of his life. But only one thought consistently rose to the top of the maelstrom: Sophie.
Good Lord, he’d kissed Sophie. Devoured her, more like, as he thought back to that shockingly intense embrace.
He’d had no business kissing her. It had been an idiotic thing to do. Cruel, even, when he thought of the harsh words he’d uttered afterwards. But how could he not have kissed her? When she had stood there, so beautifully tousled, so dangerously perceptive, so close to the unspeakable truth? And why, then, had he spent the fortnight since reliving it?
Because it was nigh on impossible not to, that’s why. Bad enough that he was obsessed with thoughts of the dratted female, but suddenly so was everyone else in London, and as much as he bemoaned his own notoriety, he almost cringed more at Sophie’s.
The porter returned with the brandy and with a clatter began to clear away the empty bottles. Matthews looked up in surprise, and then started even further at the sight of Charles. ‘Good Lord, when did you get here, Dayle?’
‘A good ten minutes ago, you drunken lout,’ snapped Henley. He gave Charles a good once over. ‘Though I must say, Dayle, you look as bad as I feel.’
‘Just looking at the pair of you makes me feel worse,’ Charles retorted. He sighed, then. ‘Sorry. What is the trouble with you two?’
‘Female trouble, what other sort is there?’ asked Henley.
Matthews was pouring them all a glass of the brandy. He flourished his own high. ‘Women, bah!’
Charles lifted his own glass in a show of solidarity and they all drank deep.
‘Got