Gone with the Rake (Inglorious Scoundrels #1)

Chapter 27

Art arrived at Rivendale’s townhouse the morning after his arrival in London. He wanted to settle this business as soon as possible. It infuriated him that his peer—much less his former friend—was threatening him and the woman he loved.

Rivendale’s townhouse was dark, dank, and imposing. Its corridors were drafty, empty—no portraits, no decorations. Hell, barely any furniture.

Rivendale’s butler, a thin, almost skeletal man with hollow cheeks, led him down the dimly lit hall.

If Art hadn’t known the owner of the house, he might have been genuinely unnerved. A draft blew past him, the chill making it feel as though the house was haunted by ghosts.

How does Rivendale live here?

The butler stopped before a large oak door and knocked twice.

“Come,” a harsh, low voice growled from within.

The butler opened the door and announced, “Lord Wakefield for you, my lord.”

Then he bowed and disappeared, leaving Art alone in the darkness. Or at least, it felt like he was alone.

He swallowed hard and stepped inside.

Across the room, a fire blazed, casting a golden glow over a small patch of space. To the right stood a desk, behind which sat an imposing figure, engulfed in shadow.

The firelight didn’t reach far enough to illuminate his face. For a fleeting moment, Art felt as though he had walked into one of those gothic stories he used to read to Lydia.

He almost expected a beast to lunge at him from the darkness. Instead, a man leaned forward—revealing a familiar face.

Lord Nathaniel Eugene Blake, the Marquess of Rivendale.

“Nathaniel,” Art greeted. “I received a rather rude missive from you a few days ago. Must have been a mistake.”

Rivendale frowned. “If you thought it was a mistake, then why are you here?”

Art stepped closer. “Because I won’t have anyone threaten the woman I love. Even in jest.”

“Would you mind stepping into the light?” Rivendale cocked his head, studying him. “Or better yet, take a seat.”

Art sat across from him, leaning forward.

“Arthur,” Rivendale said, puzzled. “My people told me I’d be dealing with a marquess.” He grimaced. “They did say the new Marquess of Wakefield… I should have made the connection. But it’s been so long since we last saw each other.”

“You’ve been quite the recluse.”

“So have you,” Rivendale agreed. A pause. “I suppose congratulations are in order for your new title?” Rivendale mused. “The old bastard has finally left this world.”

Art cleared his throat. “He did.”

“Hm.” Rivendale sniffed. “So? What’s this business about the woman you love?”

Art exhaled slowly. “Ah. Well. She is not a thief. You are mistaken,” he said earnestly—if not truthfully.

Rivendale’s eyes narrowed. “Then why isn’t she here?”

“Why would I bring her here and risk you intimidating her?” Art countered. Then he waved his hand in Rivendale’s general direction. “Look at you, frightening anyone who dares to enter your den.”

Rivendale didn’t answer.

“Listen, Nathaniel… we’ve known each other a long time,” Art pressed on. “And yes, we’ve drifted apart. But if this is still about that blasted locket—why don’t I help you find it instead?”

Rivendale studied him carefully, skepticism clear in his gaze. But after a moment, he exhaled through his nose and said, “How can you possibly help?”

Art rubbed his beard. “Have you any idea how valuable it is? Perhaps—”

“Priceless,” Rivendale cut in.

For a brief moment, Art thought he heard pain in his voice.

“I meant its market value,” Art clarified. “If someone stole it, they probably did so to sell it. If we know what it was worth, we might be able to—”

Rivendale suddenly lifted a hand, his brows furrowing.

“Something is going on in the hallway,” he muttered.

Art paused. Listened. There was noise coming from beyond the door.

Then—a knock. Twice.

Rivendale raised a brow.

“Expecting more guests?” Art asked.

“Not at all,” Rivendale replied, looking genuinely puzzled. Then he barked, “Come!”

The butler reappeared. “Miss Melissande Monroe and Miss Lydia Lawless,” he announced.

“What?” Art muttered, shooting to his feet.

“I thought you said she was innocent,” Rivendale noted dryly.

“She is.” Art’s voice was tight. “I don’t know what she’s doing here.”

“And she brought the abomination with her,” Rivendale sighed, sounding tired.

Art scowled. “Abomination?”

Why should he feel offended on behalf of the woman who had ruined Lydia in the first place? Perhaps he sympathized with her—because, like Lydia, she was an outsider, surviving the best way she knew how. Or perhaps… Perhaps something tugged at his heartstrings because she was, after all, his sister.

Rivendale exhaled sharply. “Let them in.”

The butler bowed and stepped aside.

Lydia entered first, and Art immediately strode toward her, taking her hands in his. “What are you doing here?” he whispered furiously.

“If you had waited and not run off on your own, you would know!” she hissed back.

“You’ll excuse me for not standing to greet you,” Rivendale drawled from behind them. “Please, take a seat.”

Lydia shot Art a look. “What did you tell him?”

“That you’re innocent. And I was on my way to fix everything for us before you showed up.”

“Good.” Lydia nodded and tugged him toward the desk. “And I brought proof.”

Art helped Lydia and Miss Monroe into their seats, then pulled up a chair beside Lydia.

Rivendale leaned back.

“Wakefield has almost convinced me of your innocence, Miss Lawless.” He gave a slow, deliberate look at Miss Monroe. “And yet here you are, consorting with criminals.”

“Running a hell is not a crime,” Miss Monroe said smoothly. “It’s a business. A very lucrative one, I might add, frequented almost exclusively by lords.” She smirked. “At least… that was true until a few weeks ago. Now, ladies far outnumber their husbands.” Then her gaze dropped, lowering suggestively toward the space beneath Rivendale’s desk. “I wonder why,” she murmured.

Rivendale didn’t take the bait. Instead, he turned to Lydia. “Are you regretting your decision to bring her yet?”

Lydia let out an exasperated breath. “Hear her out. Please.”

Rivendale’s icy gaze fell on Miss Monroe. How she didn’t flinch, Art didn’t understand.

In fact, she smiled at him.

And not her usual cold smile—no, a real, warm one.

One that actually made her look human, not the queen of the underworld who quite possibly ate her own children.

“Miss Lawless is innocent,” she said simply.

“If you say so,” Rivendale answered dryly.

“I have proof, I promise.”

The marquess raised a brow.

“Persephone’s Heaven—although it officially opened its doors during the masquerade—was operating in a limited capacity for weeks before that,” Miss Monroe explained. “One must always test a product before rolling it out. See how customers react to certain things, determine if anything needs to be added—”

“If I needed a lecture on running a hell,” Rivendale interrupted, “I would have probably committed myself to an asylum—because I’d surely be going mad. Please. Get. To. The. Point.”

Miss Monroe gritted her teeth so hard her jaw snapped. “Fine. I made a wager.”

Lydia slipped her hand into Art’s. He threw her a quick smile and squeezed her fingers.

What in the hell was their plan?

“That I could convince everyone that Mist was a woman,” Monroe continued. “And not just any woman, but a wealthy widow with a distinct shade of hair.”

Rivendale narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I was challenged to it by Lady Wakefield.”

Art turned to Lydia, startled. Of all the things he thought they might come up with, this had not even been on his list.

His little vixen!

Rivendale turned to Art. “Your stepmother.”

Art shrugged. “I’m as surprised as you are. Although, I shouldn’t be. She’s despised me since the day she married my father. She even convinced him to disinherit me in her favor.”

“Is that so?”

Lydia wove her fingers with Art’s, flooding him with warmth.

“If you don’t believe it, I have proof.” Miss Monroe pulled out the large book from her side and plopped it onto the desk.

Both men leaned over it to read the wager and both signatures. Miss Monroe’s and Lady Wakefield’s. How did they manage to pull this off?

“That’s a dangerous wager that could get people hanged,” Rivendale said stonily. “Although I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you.”

“Anything to keep my guests entertained.” Miss Monroe waved a dismissive hand.

“If you’re convinced,” Lydia interjected, “may we ask for assistance?”

Rivendale raised a brow. “Assistance?”

“Yes,” Miss Monroe said again. “My little wager has caused… slight inconveniences for Miss Lawless.”

“Such as, I’m being hunted,” Lydia added. “People believe I’m a thief, and that I might be prosecuted.”

The marquess shot a disdainful glance at Miss Monroe. She merely smiled.

“And you claim you’re not a criminal,” he growled.

“I didn’t know some boor was going to hunt her down using every known intimidation technique.”

Rivendale clenched his jaw.

“I apologize if I frightened you,” he said tightly. “My sole goal is to find the locket. And if anyone is at fault, I believe it would be her.” He waved a hand at Miss Monroe, refusing to look at her directly.

“I understand,” Lydia said.

“I am willing to repair the damage,” Miss Monroe declared loudly.

“How so?” Rivendale frowned.

“I will help you find your locket, if you do me a little favor and spread this knowledge about my little wager with Lady Wakefield among your peers.”

“I don’t talk to my peers,” he snapped.

“Yes, but they talk to you, and more importantly, they will listen to you. If I take my words back, no one is going to believe it. Coming from your lips, on the other hand…” She let her sentence trail off.

A clever ruse.

If Miss Monroe simply retracted her own statement, it wouldn’t draw much attention.

But a marquess spreading a juicy rumor? Now that would spread like wildfire.

And making Rosemary’s life more difficult was just an added boon.

Rivendale waved a hand. “I won’t seek out people to tell this story, but I won’t keep it to myself.”

Lydia squeezed Art’s fingers so tightly that she nearly crushed them. “That’s all we ask.”

Art rubbed soothing circles over her palm with his thumb, feeling her pulse steady, her grip relax. Then he gave her a tiny, reassuring squeeze.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired,” Rivendale said, ringing the servants’ bell.

The butler appeared before the bell finished echoing.

Without waiting for anyone to respond, Rivendale addressed his butler. “Escort my guests out.”

* * *

The trio exited the house, and as they reached the carriage, Art swept Lydia into his arms and twirled her around. Lydia giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Miss Monroe cleared her throat.

Art set Lydia down but kept his arm around her waist as they faced the proprietress of the hell.

“Miss Monroe,” Lydia said, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“We had a deal. I’m simply holding up my end of the bargain. I trust that next time, you’ll hold up yours. Besides, we are family.”

Art cleared his throat. “I know we don’t know each other well, and perhaps you’d prefer it to stay that way, but I’d like to extend an open invitation to our home. You’re always welcome.”

Miss Monroe tipped her head and strode toward her carriage.

At that moment, Art’s own carriage rolled up. The footman opened the door and let down the steps.

Art helped Lydia inside, then followed. The moment the door closed, Lydia thumped Art’s chest. Then she grabbed his face and kissed him.

When she pulled away, Art blinked at her in confusion.

“You shouldn’t have left without me!” she cried.

“And you shouldn’t have come against my will,” he grumbled.

“I saved you!”

“I would have handled it on my own!”

There was a pause. “Not as well as I did,” Lydia insisted. “And you ran off without a word, doing exactly what you berated me for!” She flailed her hands wildly as she spoke, and Art caught them, pressing both to his lips, successfully silencing her flurry of words.

“I was wrong,” he admitted, between peppering kisses to her fingers. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to protect you.”

She curled her fingers around his, holding his hands tightly. “How about we agree to protect each other instead? And by doing so, we inform one another of our plans. No more rash decisions without discussion. I want us to be partners, not just lovers.”

The carriage lurched into motion, and Art wrapped an arm around Lydia’s waist, drawing her close. “And friends.”

“Precisely!”

Art lowered his head, pressing his lips to hers. She responded instantly, opening beneath him, welcoming him. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer.

When he finally pulled away, breathless, he murmured, “That was extremely clever, though. Who came up with the idea to implicate Rosemary?”

“Miss Monroe needed to implicate someone, and I offered her name. I hope it won’t get Rivendale into trouble.”

Art shrugged. “I doubt it. He’s more powerful than she could ever dream. What about the signatures?”

Lydia smirked. “Honoria is an accomplished forger. And Miss Monroe easily shuffled the pages of her book to make sure the dates lined up.”

“I wish I had thought of asking Miss Monroe’s help. I suppose, I owe her two favors now.”

Lydia’s gaze took on a faraway look. “Something tells me she quite enjoyed the challenge. Or at least, she enjoyed rattling Rivendale.”

Art snorted. “I came to the same conclusion. It’s nice to know that Rosemary won’t be completely unscathed after stiffing me out of the inheritance,” he said with a bitter edge to his tone.

“Oh, and… I took the liberty to stiff her of a couple of things, too.” Lydia pulled a small satchel from her pocket, revealing a brilliant emerald choker. “I took this off your stepmother’s neck without her realizing it. Along with a few other jewels.”

Art’s eyes widened. “I shouldn’t be surprised. But I am quite impressed.”

Lydia chuckled. “She doesn’t deserve them if she can’t even notice they’re missing.”

Art laughed, pulling her into his lap. “You are brilliant, my little vixen.”

“I love you, my dear marquess,” she murmured. “And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

The End