A Lady's Guide to Kiss A Rake: Misadventures of the heart (9 page)

James waved her concern aside. “Cartwright is too arrogant to believe mere peasants would conspire against him. He may question them, but nothing more.”

“We can pay the shopkeeper to stay away for the day. But Cartwright’s investigation will be thorough,” Belle cautioned.

“All the more reason for us to be cautious,” Jo acknowledged.

James frowned, shifting on his long legs. “Perhaps this project is too dangerous, too reckless for young ladies to be part of.”

Jo shook her head. She understood his concern, for he felt responsible for their safety, even more so because of his brother’s absence, but they would be fine. Perhaps…her gaze captured his, a plan forming in her mind. “We will not be reckless with our lives, James. You can rest assured of that.”

He seemed unconvinced. “The commotion, it must not attract attention to your cousins or any of us. It may mean their deaths—or worse, torture.”

Belle scoffed. “Do not be so theatrical, Mr. Shaw. I for one do not wish to die.” Jo only lifted her shoulders in answer when James shot an exasperated look her way.

Belle sighed in dramatic fashion. “The commotion will be nothing but a series of unfortunate events leading to a grand disturbance. We will not be tied to it.”

“Fine, just don’t enjoy it too much,” James muttered.

“May I propose another addition to our group?” Jo asked, her gaze never leaving James. At his raised brow she continued, “Craven.”

That earned her a suspicious look from Belle.

“Have you gone mad?” James exploded, incredulous.

Jo shrugged. “He approached me and besides, we could do well with another male present, should something go wrong.”

“He approached you?” James asked, taken aback.

“Yes,” she shot back. “He claimed to have heard rumors of our activities and I believe he is bored.”

“And you are only telling us this now?” Belle asked.

“Well,” Jo murmured with a trace of sarcasm for her friend. “I would have told you sooner but I forgot.”

Belle blinked. “You forgot that a man such as Craven wishes to take part in our project?”

Jo pulled a face. “I still cannot fathom where he heard such rumors.”

Belle’s face blotted beetroot red. Still she managed to ask, “And what, pray tell, is he going to do?”

“Do not fret, Lady Belle,” James cut in, “he’ll be aiding me.”

Jo beamed. “Oh good. I will inform him of our decision.”

“This is a bad idea, Jo,” Belle advised.

“Rubbish,” Jo said, mimicking Belle’s pose by placing her hands on her hips. James’s eyes flared with curiosity.

“You have history.”

“Now, wait just a minute.” James said. “What’s this about history?”

Jo ignored him. “Two kisses can hardly be called history. It did not mean a thing.”

“You kissed Craven?”

“You kissed him twice?”

Jo sighed. “Yes, we kissed more than once.”

“The wager was one kiss.”

“The second kiss was an unexpected singular instance,” she told Belle.

“Bloody hell,” James muttered. “Save me from women and their feeble games.”

That earned him two frosty glares.

“My brother is going to kill me,” he muttered.

“Of course he is, that has never been in doubt,” Jo said.

Derek Shaw was a force to be reckoned with and would be livid. The brothers were as different as day and night. Derek’s word ruled and he controlled with an iron fist.  Overly protective when it came to his brother and his loved ones, Jo knew when he learned of their actions, the earth would crumble beneath his wrath.

“None of us will be safe from his fury. Perhaps we should scatter once he arrives back in London?”

James laughed.  “Ah sweetheart, there is no place we can hide where he won’t find us.”

Belle scoffed. “You make it sound as if he is some sort of god or deity. Surely it will not be that bad. We are, after all, saving a woman’s life.”

Jo shook her head at Belle. Her friend had yet to meet Derek Shaw, so she could not possibly understand.  “Do not believe for a moment he is like our James here.”

“One may even say he is the darker version of me,” James supplied. “I’m still certain he sprouts horns when no one is looking.”

“Well then, I can’t wait to meet this paragon I’ve heard so much about, but I still believe Craven’s motives to be questionable.”

Chapter 9

The soft crackle of a fire was the only sound in the dark room where Damien sat in brooding silence, the bitter taste of brandy a welcome burn on his tongue. He watched as sharp orange flames leaped and twirled in a fiery dance, reminding him of a certain beguiling temptress. He imagined her swaying with their rhythm, her gown a pool of flames wafting gently through the air.

Every time Damien recalled Josephine’s impish smile he could not help but be convinced she was about to stir up trouble. Not the kind of trouble ladies usually got into like, forgetting their parasol or stomping on someone’s foot or even stealing a kiss from an admirer. No, the kind of trouble that would to cause all kinds of trouble—for him.

I have no use for a husband.

It seemed like a lifetime ago when she spoke those words, but they danced around in his head, brewing in his mind. Unlike the other ladies, who wish to find the perfect match, Lady Josephine did not desire one. But then, she hardly acted like other ladies, wearing scandalous gowns and dashing off into the streets of London, kidnapping her peers.

To Damien, she out shone every woman he’d ever met by a spectacular degree of beauty and wit. Hence, his brooding mood. That he remained drawn to the woman in such a fierce way alarmed him. Sure, he loved bedding women –
different
women – sometimes he even loved bedding down with two at the same time, but never had his interest lasted more than one night.

He’d done things even Westfield, his best friend, would shudder at. Josephine had been correct when she’d labeled Westfield an amateurish rake. His friend may like to believe himself somewhat of a rakish fiend, but he’d always been a gentleman. It was why Damien never told him of his more deprived pursuits.

He ran his hand through his disheveled hair. He needed to get Josephine out of his blood.

Would seducing her be enough? He recalled their first exchange, that moment so tremendous, so clear, it felt as if someone had taken a hammer to his chest, knocking out every single breath inside of him. He’d known without a shadow of a doubt that his life had changed forever. But true to himself, he fought against it with all his might.

He recalled his father once saying:
You will never see the moment coming that will knock you on your backside boy, let’s just hope it doesn’t rip away your soul as it did mine
.

His father had been right.

Well, half right. Damien had gotten knocked on his backside and he hadn’t seen the moment coming, but his soul remained intact. So what that he seemed to be a bit infatuated, it was nothing a good tumble in his bed wouldn’t cure. No, her bed. While he may love women—love seducing them and playing their silly games—their bed always ensured him a quick departure. And as a rule he avoided bedding virgins. An involuntary shudder racked his body. The mere thought gave him the willies. Yet, his Josephine would never become so possessive and proprietorial or burst into tears when she learned his interests were less than honorable.

He took another sip of his brandy, closing his eyes at the burning sensation traveling down his throat. He should walk away, but it proved a feat even more impossible than marriage.

And try as he might, he could not figure out whether she planned on seducing Craven or not, but if she wished to be relieved of her virginity, who was he to argue? He was not without honor—he just chose to ignore it. She did not wish to marry, and he did not wish to ask. It made for the perfect arrangement, even though he pretty much expected his seduction of a virgin to finally blacken his soul.

He’d half expected Westfield to confront him, not that his friend knew of his plans. Although if Westfield cared to look, which he would have if he’d not also been so preoccupied with Lady Belle, his perceptive eyes may have taken note of Damien’s intent. Just as well, no need for Westfield so see how ashen his heart had become.

Bloody hell, he would drive himself off his head with all these thoughts. No use for this pointless internal debate, for planning to seduce Lady Josephine. He would enjoy doing it. And he planned to do it more than once. He slouched into his chair and downed the rest of his brandy, staring into the crackling embers.

A knock at the door sounded and Hendrickson appeared. “The Earl of Westfield, my lord,” he announced moments before Westfield entered.

Damien at once noticed the strain around his old friend’s eyes. “Rough night?” Damien asked, rising to fill his glass with another brandy.

Westfield produced a tired smile when Damien handed him a glass as well. “Damn woman,” he said, taking a gulp of the golden liquid.

“I take it you are referring to the lovely Lady Belle.”

Westfield snorted into his glass before plopping down in a chair. “Lovely is not my preferred word of choice. Do you suspect they are up to their old tricks again?”

Damien considered that. He knew Westfield was referring to Josephine’s projects. It may be the case, but he hadn’t noticed any odd behavior that suggested secret activities. Well, except her sudden interest in seducing Craven. The thought made him scowl. Still, if they’d been plotting another project, they’d done so without causing suspicion.

“No,” he murmured. “Even Shaw retains his distance.”

“And that’s not suspicious?” Westfield asked, crossing his leg over the other.

“Shaw may be a bastard, but he isn’t stupid. I doubt he’d do anything while his brother is out of town.”

“That does not reassure me in the least.”

Damien sipped on his brandy in reflective consideration. "Look at us, all obsessed and tormented."

Westfield’s hooded eyes flicked to Damien, a thin smile playing across his lips. “Remarkable, I know.”

Damien nodded. Lady Josephine had tricked her brother somehow and had him wrapped him around her finger, so someone needed to keep her in line. And he desired to do it. The mere thought aroused him.

“So what has Lady Belle done to put you in such a wary mood?” Damien drawled, hoping the change of topic would get his mind out of the gutter. 

“She has put the hounds on my heel.”

“Hounds?”  Brandy sputtered from his mouth.

“Her cousins.”

Most of the time Damien excelled at keeping a straight face, but the image Westfield painted was too much. He burst out laughing.

“Not funny, my friend,” Westfield said. “Apparently her cousins are husband hunting and I am on their list of eligible bachelors. I’ve been hiding in coat closets ever since.”

Damien inhaled a deep breath, trying to control his laughter. “Now there’s a terrifying prospect.”

“I assure you, it is not the slightest bit of funny. I am living in constant fear of being entrapped.”

Damien could not help himself though, the effects of the brandy had begun to take effect and his friend’s put out expression was quite comical.

“Every time I see a Middleton, I must force myself not to bolt in another direction. I’m plagued by nightmares of them, for Christ’s sake,” Westfield muttered and drained his brandy.

“Surely it’s not that bad?”

“I assure you,” Westfield said on a sigh, idly trailing the pads of his fingertips along the rim of the brandy glance. “It cannot get any worse. There must be something I can do to get them off my back.”

Damien considered Westfield’s predicament, an idea forming in his mind. The Middletons were the embodiment of a man’s nightmare—beautiful and witty, yes, but too smart and too outspoken. Like little dogs nipping at one’s heels. Of course Westfield would balk at their interest. As would any man who had no desire for their ears to be talked off. And if the Middletons persisted, it would not be long before the tongues started to wag. His friend required but a short reprieve, in which he might escape their clutches.

“I may have an idea to get them off of your back.”

Westfield’s hopeful expression caused Damien to chuckle. “It’s quite simple, all we need to do is spread a rumor that each Middleton sister is in possession of a considerable amount of dowry. Every fortune hunter in England will be on their trail.”

Westfield frowned. “That’s a bit extreme, no?”

“You disagree?” Damien inquired.

“Of course not,” Westfield muttered. “I’m just wrapping my mind around your evil one.”

“It’s a brilliant plan,” Damien pointed out.

“It’s the best plan I’ve heard in ages,” Westfield agreed with a nod.

Damien managed a smirk. “They will be so busy avoiding the advances of all the riffraff, they won’t have time to pester you.”

“Christ man,” Westfield said alarmed, “where do you get all your nefarious plans?”

Damien chuckled, not the least bit offended. “I’m a beast, of course.”

But the truth was he hated doe eyed, moonlit pleasantries. All the time he owned for romance came in the form of charm and wicked smiles. He also cared little for anything except his close friends, which extended only to Westfield and Grey. Other than that, the world could go to Hades.

As a lord he had a duty to wed and produce heirs, but to hell with duty. His father had been a snake and perhaps Damien even inherited his father’s foul moods. But the blame lay solely on his predecessor for not producing a spare to the heir before he killed Damien’s mother. Well, not killed in the actual sense of murder, but he drove her to kill herself, which in Damien’s estimation, was as good as committing the deed.

Perhaps if his mother had not killed herself in front of him and his father, he would have grown up ignorant of his father’s flaws. He’d been a mess after that, and that was how Westfield had found him, a crying heap of mess. The memory of that day never lingered far, like a black stain on his soul. Although his friend never once in all their long years of friendship spoke of it or even alluded to it.

“Have you learned anything else about the elusive Shaw brothers?” Damien asked abruptly, hoping to distract himself from the path his thoughts had taken.

“No,” Westfield said darkly. “They are remarkably good at hiding their dealings. People only ever recall spying a mountain of a man each time before a disappearance, but while that fits the description of James Shaw, or even his brother, it can never be proved.”

Damien stood, eager for another brandy. What a splendid night to drown himself in his fine bottles of gold.

“Of course, those bastards are too smart to leave clues for the amateur sleuth.”

“I hope you are not referring to me,” Westfield said, his disgruntled tone causing Damien to chuckle.

“I would never, yet they are smart.”

Westfield shot him a sharp glance.

“Don’t look at me like that, old friend. You have to admire their genius.”

“I don’t have to admire anything pertaining to those brutes.”

Damien was again reminded of his mother, standing before them, eyes filled with tears, a pistol aiming at her heart. He’d tried to placate his mother, but his father’s cruel laughter had been the final nail in his mother’s coffin and the reason she pulled the trigger, plastering her blood all over his father’s study—this very study. Damien would recognize a brute. His father had been a true one, not the Shaws, but Damien wasn’t about to point that out to his friend.  He pushed the reminders aside, though he could never push them out entirely, and wondered why tonight of all nights they hovered on the surface.

“There are worse things roaming about than those two.”

“I suppose.”

“Like the Middletons and their marriage-minded intentions,” Damien said to lighten the suddenly glum air.

“By spreading lies.”

“Not lies,” Damien said waving a hand in the air. “Their dowry isn’t known to anyone, perhaps there is a reason for that.”

“Oh?” Westfield asked, his eyes lighting with speculation. “Perhaps they have none.”

Damien only lifted his shoulder in response.

“You are the devil, you know that?”

“Of course, I was commissioned by London’s finest.”

His friend drew back at the sarcasm in his tone. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to imply—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Damien interrupted. “It is what it is.”

“So,” Westfield said, directing the conversation to a more appropriate topic, “I heard you payed Craven a visit. Care to elaborate on that?”

“Paying attention to rumors now, are you?"

“Of course.”

“What else have you learned?”

“Not much, but I assume that Lady Josephine is somehow involved.”

“The chit has decided she wishes to seduce Craven.”

Westfield’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

Damien’s dark scowl turned even darker.  “Yes, it would seem it started as a wager to gain a kiss, which escalated to something else entirely.”

“Is my sister involved?"

Damien nodded. “Yes, and your Lady Belle even had her little hounds on my heel for a while, to distract me, but I’m not one to be led around the nose.”

Westfield scowled. “She’s not my Lady Belle and why would Lady Josephine choose Craven as a conquest? The man’s reputation is even darker than yours.”

“Pure speculation.”