My Scandalous Viscount (5 page)

“Is this really the time for a joke, when a person has been shot?”

“That’s the perfect time for a joke, in my experience. I have a good one for you. This toad goes into a tavern—”

“I have blood coming out of my head!”

“Yes, but not nearly as much as I’d feared. Believe you me, I’m thrilled about this. Delighted. You have no idea how happy I am right now that this wasn’t worse.”

“Worse?”

“I thought I was going to find the bullet lodged in your old noggin, but I’m happy to say, your clever brain’s untouched by all the fuss. It only grazed you. You were incredibly lucky, to be honest. An inch lower, and it could have taken off your earlobe and scratched your pretty face. Or worse. Which I don’t care to think about. And I don’t recommend you think about it, either.”

She cringed. “So, what about the toad?”

“Right. So, the toad hops up onto a stool at the bar and orders a pint . . .”

He continued with his inane little story, but as endearing as she found his effort to comfort her, Carissa could not pay attention to a joke when the man was coolly stitching her scalp back together.

She squeezed her eyes shut, determined to bear it through. Ultimately, she succeeded in distracting herself at last by reliving the pleasant memory of his kiss that day.

“Hang on, sweet. One more. We’re almost done. You’re doing well. There we are . . . Done.”

“How many?”

“Lucky seven. Luckier than you realize.” He pulled the needle through one last time, then proceeded to tie the end of the thread into a knot. “Good show, my girl. Now you are officially—a soldier.”

A
nd now, if you will excuse me, I believe it’s my turn to pass out.
Beau took a swig from the nearby bottle of brandy to steady himself after that ordeal, then offered it to her. “Go on, take it. It’ll help dull the pain.”

Her smooth brow puckered in slight disapproval, but she accepted the liquor warily and tipped it to her lips.

Beau gazed at her in soul-deep relief. She was alive. She’d be fine.

Finally, he could exhale.

Only now he began to notice the throbbing in his arm. It hurt like hell. He took the bottle back from her and took another large gulp of the fiery spirits.

The brandy warmed him to the belly but not as much as the sight of her, milky-skinned and tousled, with the bodice of her evening gown loosened and her long hair spilling free over her bared shoulders.

Everything in him hungered to ravish her.

He refused to believe that even he was that depraved, after all she’d been through. Yet, oddly, he felt closer to her now, as if the night’s mess had bonded them in some strange way.

Filled with a protectiveness toward her the likes of which he had never known, the urge to claim her for himself stormed through him. He looked away, took a fresh rag out, and spilled a little brandy on it.

“Last step,” he murmured, pressing it to her stitches. That done, he leaned down and kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger at her hairline.

As he closed his eyes, he said a prayer of thanks that she had been spared. “You were very brave.”

“Well,” she said uncertainly, “the toad helped.”

“You’re a toad,” he told her fondly.

“No, I’m not, you are.”

“But if you kiss me, I might turn into a prince.”

“We both know you’re already a prince.”

“I think someone’s a little woozy from blood loss.” He pulled back. “Do you want to see your stitches?” He offered her the hand mirror he had brought along in case he needed Gray to hold it for him to focus the light or to give him a better angle on his work.

She glanced reluctantly into the reflection. “How about that,” she murmured, peering at them. “Lord Beauchamp,” she said hesitantly, “I think you saved my life.” Then she shuddered and looked away.

Probably so.

“Now for the bandage, then you’ll be done.” He stood to wrap her head. She sat obediently, watching him as he wound a fresh white strip of bandaging around and around her head, hatband style. “Too tight?”

“No, it’s good. Thank you.”

He tucked the end of the bandage under, then offered her the bottle of brandy again. She did not argue but took it from him and helped herself to a swig.

Beau sat down again, reached for a fresh rag, and dipped it in the clean bowl of warm water. Then he reached across to her and gently used it to clean the dried blood off her skin, dabbing, wiping tenderly.

She did not object.

At length, she let out a sigh, lay back on the couch again, and closed her eyes. “I’m going to be ruined now, aren’t I?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Dante House. Wicked Inferno Club. Ruined. My uncle will throw me out,” she mused aloud. “I’ll have nowhere to go . . . tossed out in the street.”

“Come, that’s not going to happen. Your uncle may be a stern bit of stuffing, but he doesn’t strike me as a cruel man. Besides, no one needs to know you were ever here unless one of us tells them.”

She eyed him dubiously. “How’s that?”

“Well—” He rinsed the rag out again, then stroked it down her shoulder. “How good a liar are you?”

She started laughing, wearily, cynically.

He was intrigued. “What is it?”

“Oh, I’m a very good liar—when I need to be. Don’t you worry about that.” She took another swig of brandy.

He arched a brow. “All right. Then we’ll make up some story, and no one will be the wiser.”

“Do you really think we can get away with this?”

“Of course.” He studied for a moment. “First, I have to know. Why didn’t you warn me I was walking into a trap?”

“I said I was sorry. You were a beast. You know you were! I thought at last you’d finally learn your lesson about dallying with all these married women. But then I felt guilty, so I followed.”

He eyed her ruefully. “You are a piece of work,” he said.

She settled back against the cushions. “So, who was he? The jealous husband, I mean.”

“Oh, that wasn’t a jealous husband.”

She blinked. “No? Who was it that shot us, then?”

He snorted. “That was my best friend. You’d better give me that brandy.”

She looked at him in astonishment.

Beau shrugged and took a swig from the bottle, which was dwindling fast.

“What did you do to him? Why did he try to kill us?”

“Why do you blame me? You just assume I did something wicked? Did it ever occur to you I’m rather a good chap?”

He did not wait for an answer, but she was thinking it over.

“Trust me, if Nick had wanted to kill us, we would be dead. He’s frightfully good at that sort of thing. On that note, if you’ll excuse me, I have to tend my arm.”

“Your arm?” she echoed. Then she gasped loudly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were injured, too?”

“Er, because you were unconscious?”

With a stricken look, she pressed her hand over her mouth.

After all the inconvenience she had caused him this night, he took some amused satisfaction in the soulful contrition that crept into her big green eyes.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, as she lowered her hand slowly from her lips.

“You should have said something! I didn’t realize you were hurt!” Staring at the torn flesh of his arm, she began to turn rather green around the gills. “Would you like some help?” she offered with a gulp, nonetheless.

He laughed. “No, thanks. I can take care of myself.”

Relief flashed across her face. “Are you sure?”

“Gray can help me if I need it. That’s the butler. Call him if you need anything.”

“Oh—well, then—if you’re sure.”

“Get some rest, Carissa. You lost a lot of blood. You must feel like the very devil. Let me dress this wound,” he said, nodding down at his arm, “then I’ll take you home.”

“All right.” She sank back against the cushions.

He dimmed the brightly lit room so she could relax. He blew out a few of the candles and turned down the oil lamp; then he picked up a few of the medical supplies and turned to go.

He would have to remove his shirt in order to tend his arm, and this was one young lady whose sensibilities had already been put through enough for one night. She did not need a bloodied, half-naked man in front of her, as well.

“Lord Beauchamp?” she murmured, as he headed for the door. The sound of his name on her tongue heated him better than the brandy.

He turned back. “Yes?”

“Thank you for saving my life,” she said earnestly.

He dropped his gaze. “It was my fault you got shot in the first place.”

“No, it wasn’t. The fault was my own. If I had warned you straightaway about seeing that man switch the note, this never would’ve happened. But I was too proud, too stubborn. I hope you will forgive me.”

“I’m just glad the bullet only grazed you,” he replied, looking into her eyes.

She offered him a tentative smile, which he returned. The gaze they exchanged warmed him to the core. A little abashed, he nodded farewell and started once more to leave.

“Um, Lord Beauchamp? There is one other thing.”

“Yes, Miss Portland?” He glanced back over his shoulder.

“You were right,” she admitted. “I was a little jealous.”

“Aha!” he said with a knowing grin that spread from ear to ear. With a roguish chuckle, he took his leave of her.
I knew it.

Chapter 5

W
hen he had gone, Carissa closed her eyes and tried to rest. But now that the worst had passed, and she knew she was going to live, her curiosity returned with a vengeance.

Dante House!

She couldn’t believe she was inside the legendary gentlemen’s club where the men behaved like anything
but
gentlemen. Too jittery after her brush with death to relax, she sat up slowly on the couch and looked around.

Lying there like some wilting violet was not quite her style, after all. Bad enough she had fainted like a ninny—no doubt Lord Beauchamp was never going to let her live that down.

In any case, she had not been
quite
as unconscious as Beau had believed when he had returned with the physician’s bag, stepping through the odd doorway concealed behind the bookcase. She had a notion to get a closer look at that.

Glancing over to make sure no one was coming, Carissa took a deep breath, then gathered her strength and stood. Still wobbly but feeling much better, all in all, she steadied herself. Perhaps the brandy he had given her had gone to her head, but the sensation of his hands on her persisted. The way he’d taken charge so expertly with her clothes and her hair had her feeling most improper. Likely it was the influence of this wicked place that encouraged bad thoughts of yielding to temptation.

Well, she wouldn’t be here long, she told herself, and honestly, how many decent young ladies ever got the chance to find out firsthand what really went on in this scandalous den of iniquity? Why, as a lady of information, it was practically her duty to have a look around so she could tell Daphne and Kate about their husbands’ club.

And so, Carissa set out to snoop.

Well, the décor was certainly garish, she noted. Red velvet furniture, black leather—Lud! Tiptoeing across the room, she had questions in abundance. Why did they have secret doors and such vicious guard dogs? Why did Lord Beauchamp know what to do in a medical emergency? And why, out of all the jealous husbands he had cuckolded, was it his best friend who wanted to kill him?

So many mysteries . . .

As she headed across the parlor toward the bookcase that he had opened like a door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and was rather aghast at what she saw.

Drying blood down the side of her gown made her look like the madwoman in some Gothic novel. But she was even more shocked by the impropriety of her appearance.

Her loosened bodice was slipping off her shoulders; her stays were untied, her hands ungloved; her hair hung freely to her waist, as only her maid and her family members ever saw it on the rarest occasions!

Egads, the man had more or less undressed her.

Maybe it was an everyday occurrence for him, making free with a lady’s person, but she was scandalized by his handiwork. Of course, his chief handiwork on her had been the stitches in her head, and without them, she supposed she would still be losing blood.

Taking a step toward the mirror, she stared at the bandage wrapped around her head, morbidly amazed.

Why, I look like one of Welly’s troops on the march home from fighting Boney.
Wide-eyed, she shook her head at her reflection. What on earth was she going to tell her uncle?

Miss Trent and her cousins must be beside themselves by now, wondering what had happened to her.

Or maybe not.
She glanced uncertainly at the clock on the wall.
What time is it, anyway?
A quarter to midnight. The play would be ending soon.

Her head began to pound as she wondered how to explain this to her family. She braced herself on the back of the nearest gaudy chair, then closed her eyes until the wave of dizziness had passed.

No, she couldn’t think about that right now.

In a little while, she told herself, she would come up with some clever explanation to account for her absence and her shocking appearance. For now, she had only a small sliver of time to investigate the mystery of that secret doorway before
he
returned.

The knight of the needle.

She giggled, blood loss and brandy making her silly. Hastily retying her stays, pulling her gown up, and fastening it as best she could behind her back without the help of a maid, she went over to the bookcase and studied it, tapping her lip as she tried to figure out how it worked.

She experimented by poking around at a few of the books and knickknacks on the shelves, but nothing happened until she laid hold of an unobtrusive bookend—a small bronze head of some past king.

The clue came when she tried to pick it up; it wouldn’t move. It was attached to the shelf, and that didn’t make any sense.

Then she found that she could twist it: The bookcase clicked forward from the wall. She drew in her breath and gripped the edge of it, pulling it open slowly, fascinated.

It was heavy, disguised in front with shelves full of real books, but it swung forward like an ordinary door.

Carissa peered into the darkness beyond, her heart pounding. A dark passageway about two feet wide led off into the inky blackness in both directions.

Oh, I cannot wait to tell Daphne about this!

She dashed back to fetch the oil lamp, turning it up to its full illumination. Then she held it up into the darkness and leaned in to have a look.

A secret passageway stretched in both directions. She peered this way and that, a frisson of excitement tingling down her limbs.
I wonder where this goes.

She glanced over her shoulder at the closed parlor door. No sign of Beauchamp yet. He must be sewing stitches on himself, poor man. Then she paused to gnaw her lip a bit in guilt to know that no one was helping him the way he had helped her.

Oh, well, she quickly concluded, shrugging to herself. He seemed supremely self-sufficient, not the sort who’d want a woman fussing over him.

More importantly, he would be back at any minute. If she wanted to continue exploring—which of course she did—this would likely be her only chance. She took a deep breath.
Just a peek.

Ever so cautiously, she stepped through the mysterious open doorway of the bookcase, leaving it open behind her to avoid any mishaps.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t stopped to contemplate the workings of hidden weight-triggered mechanisms, and as soon as she placed her weight on the first floorboard past the threshold, the bookcase-door swung shut behind her.

And locked.

She whirled around with a gasp to find herself entombed inside the wall. With a gulp, she lifted the lantern, trying to find the latch or whatever to open the thing again.

She spied a simple handle like that on a drawer. But when she pushed it, the bookcase wouldn’t budge.

“Come on!” she whispered, trying to jiggle it free, but nothing happened. Lifting her lantern higher, she scanned all around the door and noticed above her eye level an odd little brass plaque set into the wall.

It had a dial in the center with numbers encircling it like the face of a clock. Her eyes widened, and her heart sank as she realized what it was. A combination lock. You had to know the code. “Oh, no. No, no, no!” she whispered, her fingertips alighting on the center dial—but she stopped herself from turning it and yanked her hand away.

She might only trigger some other bizarre mechanism.

Calm down,
she ordered herself, dry-mouthed.

This passageway obviously led somewhere. She’d follow it and find another way out.
Yes.
Then she could sneak back to the parlor and resume her wilting-violet pose on the couch, and he’d never be the wiser.

Very well, she thought, nodding to herself. She wasn’t sure which way to go, as the passage stretched both to the right and the left. With a shrug, she opted at random for the left, summoned up all her determination, and set off, lifting her lantern high. The flickering glow cast an eerie light in the close, narrow space. Carissa took comfort in knowing that while she might hate the sight of blood, at least she wasn’t claustrophobic. With each step forward, she grew more intrigued than scared.

The smell inside the walls was damp and musty with age. Having seen Dante House from the outside many times before whenever she had traveled along the Strand, she knew it was one of the row of ancient Town mansions that sat beside the Thames, a relic of the Tudor period.

Now inside the walls, she could feel the weight of its great age, and could only wonder at all the upheavals in London the house must have witnessed over the centuries. It groaned like it was haunted.

Cobwebs fluttered in the draft.

The secret passage turned and twisted like a labyrinth, trying to trip her up on uneven steps, taking her up and down ladders, offering branched paths here and there that left her wondering which way to turn.

It was all a delicious mystery—like Beau himself—but she knew she did not have much time to explore and had not yet come across an exit. The inky black maze seemed to distort her sense of time and sense of space, as well, so it was hard to judge where the deuce she was inside the house, let alone how many minutes might have passed. Maybe ten? At the same time, she was trying to hurry and not to tax her strength too much after her ordeal.

When she came to another dark intersection, she debated whether to go to the right or the left or straight down on the ladder that descended into empty space before her. If she did not have the lantern, she thought, she’d have stepped into that hole and broken her neck.

She held the lantern over it, trying to see what might lie beyond the darkness; but biting her lower lip, she decided that there was only one way to find out.

Climbing carefully onto the ladder in her long, bloodstained evening gown, she hung the lantern over her wrist and gripped the top rung. Then she began her descent, laughing to herself to think of any club member who might happen to see her like this. She might well be mistaken for some macabre lady ghost haunting the old building.

Reaching the bottom of the ladder, she stepped off into another wood-planked passageway, but here, she could feel a slightly stronger draft floating past her cheeks. It made her lantern flicker.

She cupped her hand before the flame. “Don’t you even think about it,” she breathed. But the threat of losing her light did not deter her from pressing on into the darkness, smiling in spite of herself.

What would Beau say if he knew what she was up to?

Ahead, her lantern’s glow revealed an opening. “What’s this?” she murmured softly.

A little room opened up before her, perhaps twelve by twelve, but she furrowed her brow to spy its main feature: a gaping hole in the middle of the floor. At nearly ten feet in diameter, it took up most of the room.

Why would they want a giant hole in the floor?

Mystified, she lifted her gaze and saw a sturdy rope hanging down from the ceiling, with thick knots at regular intervals. The knotted rope descended into the center of the hole—like a ladder, she thought—but it was out of reach unless you took a running leap.

Of course, if you missed or did not hold on tightly enough, you’d fall, she mused.
What on earth?
Cautiously walking over to the edge, she peered into the hole, wondering what was down there. She must be at the level of the house’s deepest foundations, she thought, for beneath the mighty wood timbers, she now saw stone.

The hole appeared to burrow straight down into the limestone. But why? If they wanted to put a simple cellar beneath the house, why make it accessible only by a treacherous rope ladder? It was too intriguing.

She held her lantern out over the hole, trying to see down. There must be something down there that the men of the Inferno Club did not want anyone else discovering.

Her spine tingled. She hoped it wasn’t something sinister. But if it were ordinary or harmless, then why take all these precautions to keep it hidden? She remembered how the Home Office had been speaking to Lord Beauchamp about something . . .

Oh, God.
What if there was something criminal going on here?
What if there are, I don’t know,
she thought,
dead bodies or something down there?
She swallowed hard.

It suddenly struck her that she must have been completely out of her head to attempt this. There was harmless, ordinary snooping into gossip, then there was serious, wish-you-never-found-out-about-it prying into matters that were better left alone.

Indeed, not even
her
outsized curiosity streak was strong enough to make her consider risking a leap onto that rope-ladder to see what was below. Especially since she would have to put down her lantern even to try it. Without light, she could get lost inside this labyrinth forever, she thought—and at that moment, right on cue, an uprush of clammy air suddenly snuffed out her lantern’s flame.

She lurched back from the hole with a horrified gasp, lost her grip on the lantern in the process, and dropped it. She heard it clatter to a stone floor many feet below. Her heart pounding, she found herself staring blindly into utter darkness.
Oh, dear Lord. How am I going to find my way back?

She could not see
anything,
but at least she had the sense to back away from that hole. When she felt the solid wall behind her, she breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
Right.

Her first task was to find her way back to the ladder. Turning ever so cautiously, she felt her way to the corner of the passageway down which she had come.

Panic snagged at the edges of her mind, but she managed to keep it in check as she groped along down the narrow passageway and found the ladder at last. Willing herself to stay calm, she started climbing, rung by rung.

This, at least, was easily done.

At the top, she now had another choice to make: right, left, straight. Well, she had come from the passage straight ahead and had not located any exits that way. She stared in one direction, then the other. With a shrug, she decided to try going to the right.

As she made her way along the narrow passage, this had all become a lot less entertaining. The darkness closing in on her felt oppressive; the stuffy air choked her. Her head began to throb again. Her stitches burned.