A Study in Scoundrels Read online

  DEDICATION

  To my husband, always. And to my readers, especially those who gave me a chance with my first Avon series and have followed me into this second one. I hope you find the Ruthvens’ stories as fun to read as they were to write.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my fabulous editor, Elle. Your wisdom and encouragement make every book better. Jan and Karen, you’re both amazing. Every time I read your work, I’m inspired. How did I ever get by without your thoughtful critiques, help with plotting, and fabulous feedback? And a huge thanks to you, Charis, for letting me talk through my “road trip” tale with you.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  An Excerpt from Rules for a Rogue

  A Letter from the Editor

  About the Author

  Also by Christy Carlyle

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  June 20, 1877

  Four and one would become his new lucky numbers because his fourteenth was proving to be the best birthday yet.

  Jasper Grey, second son of the Earl of Stanhope, considered mischief an art, and he worked very hard at becoming a master artist.

  With a bit of bravado and a flawless poker face, he’d won every last note and coin off a cluster of fools at the White Horse pub. Almost more than he could cram into his fist. Enough to buy him dozens of dreadfuls. He’d get Crimes of London and The Black Band and every other penny-blood that his mother insisted he never ever read.

  They weren’t local men. He’d never seen them at the village public house before, but they let him into their card game just the same. No doubt they’d taken in his tailored clothes and youthful face and considered him an easy mark.

  The only easy bit had been playing cards well enough to unburden the dunces of all of their blunt.

  Bending at the waist, he braced a hand on his thigh and worked to catch his breath. In case the fools thought to follow him, he’d cut across the meadow and run all the way to the lake on his family’s estate. Nothing felt better on a hot summer day than a dip in the lake. Hidden by a copse of ancient oaks, the water kept cool even when the sun beat down from morning to night.

  “What have you got up to now, Jas?” Richard stepped from behind a tree near the path that led to Longcross, the family estate. His brother cuffed him around the back of the neck before laying a broad arm across his shoulders. “The White Horse publican says some visitors from London are complaining about a young scalawag cheating them at cards.”

  Eight years older and several heads taller, Rich had the nose of a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out Jasper’s mischievous deeds.

  “I never cheated. A bit of fakery perhaps. I’m better at hiding my hand than they are.” Jasper shrugged. “Father always says one shouldn’t suffer fools.” He didn’t need to remind his brother that their father usually repeated the phrase when referring to his second and continuously disappointing son.

  “At some point, you’ll have to stop seeking mischief.” Rich ran a hand through his blond hair before tugging the bottom edge of the fancy waistcoat he’d taken to wearing. Since turning two and twenty a few months past, his brother had become a good deal more interested in fashion than fun.

  “Why?”

  Rich chuckled. “You’re growing up, Jas. Time to start planning for the future.”

  “Like you?” Jasper teased. “Planning to ask Miss Rebecca Hartley to marry you?”

  “She’ll say yes,” Rich boasted.

  Jasper had no doubt she would. Becca was two years older than Rich and far from the prettiest girl in the county, but they’d long fancied each other. And she was clever. She’d even beaten Jasper at cribbage. Once.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have joined the men’s card game.” They were tough and burly, and none was thrilled to have his pockets emptied of coin. After losing several rounds, they’d continued to play, convinced their luck would turn. “But trust me, Rich. These men were imbeciles.”

  “Imp seals, are we?” The tallest of the four men emerged from the tree line. His cronies joined him one by one, building a wall of brawny bodies and scowling faces.

  “See what I mean?” Jasper teased as he tipped his brother a smirk.

  “We don’t want any trouble, gentlemen.” Rich stepped forward, shoving Jasper behind him.

  “Too late,” the shortest thug sneered. “Your wee friend already found it.”

  Richard squared his shoulders, and Jasper watched as his brother curled his massive hands into fists.

  “Come, gents.” Jasper sidestepped around Richard. “Let’s return to the White Horse, and I’ll give you a chance to win back your losses.” His brother was a fine fighter, but Jasper wasn’t naïve enough to think they could take on four grown men.

  Unfortunately, his words only seemed to stoke their ire. The shortest slipped an object from his coat and slapped the roughhewn cudgel against his palm. A second later, they rushed forward as one, hunching their shoulders and tucking their heads like bulls charging an opponent.

  The first strike of the cudgel came with a sickening crack that sent Richard sprawling to the ground, just near the water’s edge. Three toughs were on him like rabid dogs, snarling and kicking. Another held Jasper from behind. He clawed at the man’s arm, stomped his feet to get free, and screamed his brother’s name.

  “Get up, Richard! Don’t let them kick you!”

  His brother would get up. He would jump to his feet and thrash the bullies as they deserved. Richard was tall and strong and had bested most of the other boys in the county. In endless rounds of fisticuffs, he’d proved no one could defeat Richard Douglas Grey, Viscount Winship, the Stanhope heir.

  “Gentleman pugilist,” Papa boasted of his favorite son. “Golden Hector,” Mama called her firstborn, referring to some ancient fighter who’d won all his battles.

  Just like Richard.

  The bastard at his back lashed an arm around Jasper’s neck, squeezing at his throat like a bony noose, but Jasper kept thrashing. Kept shouting. Kept believing his brother would shake off that first blow and defend them both. As he’d always done.

  Water splashed and a drop landed on Jasper’s cheek. They’d dragged Rich into the lake, and he was struggling now. Arms flying. Fighting back. But there were too many. Blood dripped down his brother’s face. He’d stain that damned waistcoat he loved so much.

  Jasper scraped his feet on the grass, trying to get away from the man who had him ’round the neck. His captor squeezed tighter, cinching his throat until he couldn’t breathe.

  “Rich—” Blackness swelled around Jasper like spilled ink, spreading to the corners of his sight, blotting all his strength. “Help me.”

  But unlike every other moment of his fourteen years, when Richard was there to lift him to his feet, dust off his skinned knees, and beat away his attackers, no help came. Only blackness. Only blows.

  A fist slammed the side
of his head, and the world tilted. Soggy grass rushed up. He tasted mud as he hit the ground. Boots pummeled his ribs. Jasper found the strength to lift his arms, covering his head with his hands. But another hand came. The man wrenched open Jasper’s clenched fingers, scraping and scratching until he’d removed every crumpled bank note, every coin.

  “Shouldn’t have filched from us, toff.”

  A final blow. Ringing in his ears. True darkness. Black ink spreading out to cover every sight and sound.

  Scattered thoughts came.

  Richard needed help. Get to him. Papa would be angry. Richard was the heir. He was the one who never failed. Richard mattered. He had to live.

  CHAPTER ONE

  June 22, 1895

  Laughter tickled his ears. Weight bore down on his chest, draped over his hips. A soft weight, pliant under his hands. Heated too. Pleasure in his groin twined with pain in his head as the soft, warm weight moved against him.

  He blinked, then again. Colors shimmered and blurred. The light was too dim. The room too smoky. Perfume burned his nose, too spicy and pungent.

  What was that sound? A moan. A cry.

  A rumbling groan reverberated in his own chest.

  “Don’t leave me now,” a woman whispered near his ear. “I need release.”

  He flexed his fingers, digging into the warm flesh of smooth feminine legs. Slid his hand up, finding the thicket of curls between the woman’s spread thighs.

  “Yes, Grey.”

  She moved against him, her breath quickening as little moans emerged. She clutched at his shoulder, her other hand on his, showing him how to touch her.

  He didn’t require much direction. The role of lover was one he knew by heart. Some said he was skilled on stage, but he never doubted his expertise in the bedroom.

  His own body had numbed. Whether from drink or the drugging effect of the smoke rising in whorls above his head, he wasn’t certain. But this, how to touch a woman, how to give pleasure. This he knew intuitively. This was where he excelled.

  Heaven knew he’d failed at everything else.

  Except acting.

  But performing on stage was all a matter of illusion, of lying artfully. Sex and falsehood were his twin aptitudes.

  If only he could see the woman clearly and scatter the fog in his mind. He twisted his head on the pillow and noticed a half-empty glass of blue-green liquid glowing in the low gaslight.

  “What did I drink?”

  A trill of laughter. Red lips. The curve of a grin in a pale face. A waterfall of red hair.

  He swirled his fingers in the woman’s curls. She stilled and held her breath. He knew he’d found the key. Gently, masterfully, he touched her with all the art he’d learned from countless lovers.

  “Oh, Grey.” She twitched against his fingers, dug her nails into his shoulder. “Don’t stop.”

  He didn’t. Not until she gusted out a long moan, dipped her head, and sank against him as if her bones had melted.

  “Absinthe,” she murmured against his chest. “A bit of laudanum.”

  Grey pressed a fist to the throbbing crown of his head and tried to sit up. The lady on his chest stretched like a cat woken from a nap before rising off him and stepping away from the bed.

  No, he realized when his vision cleared and he took in the books lining the walls, not a bed. Not his bedroom. He was on a settee in his London townhouse’s library, and he and his lady companion were not alone. Half-clothed bodies reclined around the musky, haze-clouded room. Some sleeping. Others smoking from an enormous bubbling hookah. At least one couple was busy, writhing and moaning in the far corner.

  A man stumbled past the open library door, nude from the waist up, his shirt and coat rolled in a crumpled ball in his arms. Returning to the threshold, he let out a burp before offering, “Many happy returns, Grey. Smashing birthday party.”

  Grey waved in the man’s direction, though he couldn’t have recalled the gent’s identity to save his life. Now that his eyesight had cleared, he could make out the bell pull near the fireplace. He kicked a man’s leg as he stumbled forward. In his stupor, the partygoer only managed a weak grumble.

  Finally reaching the length of fabric to signal the downstairs staff, Grey yanked hard. A seemingly endless ribbon of velvet fabric settled at his feet. Not the bell pull, apparently, but a woman’s dismantled gown.

  “I need some bloody coffee!” he shouted, instantly regretting the painful echo in his head. No one seemed sober enough to listen anyway.

  “Ask the maid to get some,” a man called from a deep wingback chair with a giggling woman sprawled across its arms. “As soon as I’m finished with her,” the heartless cad added before taking her mouth in a kiss.

  “Unless someone gets me coffee, you are all uninvited from my next celebration.” He glanced at the scattered bodies. “And if you work for me, you’re fired.”

  “I’ll find you some, sweetheart.” The woman he’d woken to find on his lap approached and ran a hand down his chest. She’d donned a sheer wrapper that covered her body but hid nothing from his gaze. Lifting her other hand, she offered what he guessed were his trousers hooked on the tip of one finger.

  “Thank you, darling.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek, still at a complete loss for the woman’s name. Of course, it didn’t stop him from watching her maneuver out of the room, plump backside swaying with every step, as he pulled on his trousers.

  Sinking onto the settee, he ran a hand through his hair and surveyed the wreckage. More than bodies littered the room. Books had been pulled from their shelves. The desk had been swiped clear of its lamp, writing implements, and blotter. A Nippon vase a wealthy widow had gifted him lay in pieces on the windowsill.

  “My lord, may I have a word?”

  Grey gazed around the room, waiting for an aristocratic guest to pop up and answer the man’s request. It had been years since he’d responded to titles or honorifics. Throughout his time in London, he’d done his best to ensure no acquaintances learned of the life he’d left behind.

  He had the means to provide lavish entertainment. That was all anyone truly cared to know.

  “May I have a word, my lord?” the voice came again. Emotionless. Calm. Hauntingly familiar. A ghost from the past.

  Grey turned his head and blinked, pressed two fingers to his blurry eyes. The ghost was corporeal and stood in the doorway as stiff and straight as ever.

  “Blessing?” Grey croaked.

  “Lord Winship.” The man nodded in the curt, almost insulting way of William Blessing, his father’s long-suffering butler. But the man couldn’t be here in Grey’s sinful corner of fashionable London. Derbyshire was where Blessing belonged. The care and keeping of the Stanhope staff and estate was the old man’s domain. He was far too loyal a servant to stray from the Earl of Stanhope’s side while his master was dying. Unless . . .

  “My father?”

  “He perseveres, my lord.”

  Grey swallowed hard and stood, crossing his arms over his chest. Suddenly, after two days of unfettered revelry, he felt underdressed. “Then why are you here, Blessing?”

  “Because I need to speak to you, and he wouldn’t let me come alone.” Another voice from the past. Rebecca, Lady Fennston, stepped around Blessing, her black hair streaked with gray now and partially covered by a hooded cloak. Her eyes ballooned as she took in the wreckage of Grey’s library. Then her cheeks reddened when she noticed Grey’s half-naked state.

  “My lady, you should have waited in the carriage.” Blessing stepped forward to block her view as best he could.

  “Go to your carriage, Becca. I’ll join you there momentarily.” It was the only place he could be sure she wouldn’t encounter any further debauchery. Blessing seemed to agree. He offered another of his curt nods and escorted her toward the front door.

  “I could only find tea, lover.” His scantily clad paramour sashayed into the room and held out a steaming cup. Maeve, that was her name.

  “Thank you,
sweet.” Grey retrieved the cup and took a quick sip, burning his fingers on the scorching porcelain and his tongue on the searing hot liquid. “Could you find me a shirt too?”

  She grinned indulgently and bent at the waist, giving him a delicious view as she retrieved his hopelessly wrinkled white dress shirt from a spot near the settee. Handing him the garment, she lifted onto her toes for a kiss. Grey slipped his arms into the shirt and placed a quick peck on the tip of her nose. “I must speak to a lady and will return shortly.”

  “A lady?” she teased.

  “An old family friend.” Grey didn’t mind the snide pitch of Maeve’s tone as much as the thread of jealousy. His strict rules for any liaison were brevity and freedom. He could promise his lovers passion, sensual satisfaction, and nothing more. Ever.

  Without another word, he made his way out the front door and into the Fennston carriage. Blessing stood guard outside the vehicle, as if expecting a horde of Grey’s drugged, oversexed friends to mount an assault.

  Lady Fennston looked relieved to find him dressed, if thoroughly disheveled.

  “What is it, Becca? What’s brought you to London?”

  “Shh.” She lifted a gloved finger to her lips. “Blessing knows of the situation, but the coachman does not. We need to keep this as quiet as we can.”

  Grey noted the fine lines around her chastising eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth. She was still every inch the woman who’d become a kind of older sister to him after his brother’s death, offering consolation and censure in equal measure. As Richard would have done.

  Despite her frown, she looked well. Apparently, marriage suited the woman his brother had hoped to wed. Strange. Especially since her union had been a hastily arranged match with his boring cousin Alistair Fennston only a year after Richard’s death.

  “What situation?” Grey whispered, bracing his elbows on his knees.

  She gnawed at her lower lip, as if the words were difficult to speak, or she harbored uncertainty about telling him. Her silence ratcheted the tension in his body.

  “It’s Phyllida.”

  “Liddy?” Grey’s heart sank into his belly and a chill chased down his spine. “Tell me she’s all right.”