Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

“Settling is the best I can expect. An unwed mother of a natural child? I won’t have the opportunity to be choosy. I can’t even have a season.”


His eyes were kind. “Oh, I think you will. Years from now, you will return to London as a strong, independent, beautiful, and deliciously scandalous lady. Believe me, the men will be powerless to resist.” Collecting the dice, he said, “I shall make it a point to attend your first ball, just to gloat over my accurate prediction.”

“Truly?” She cast a glance at his hobbled leg, thinking it rather brave of him to contemplate attending balls. “Then you must be my partner for the first dance.”

“It’s a bargain.”

They shook hands over the backgammon board. A mild cramp seized her abdomen, and Claudia winced.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“Yes, yes.” She took a deep breath, then released it slowly. “I have these twinges most every day now. False labor, the doctor called it.” She rubbed her domed belly in small circles until the tightness eased. This was nothing, compared to those frightening episodes in her early pregnancy. The pain and blood …

“What about you, Mr. Faraday?” she asked, trying to distract herself with a change of subject. “Have you been in love?”

His gaze cut away. “Yes.”

“But it didn’t end well.”

“No, it didn’t.” He rolled the dice, then stared at them. “It ended very badly indeed.”

There was a deep, unsettling sadness in his mien. It made Claudia want to comfort him, but she didn’t know how. She took a long sip of lemonade instead. “But you’re certain it’s worth waiting for?” she asked, wiping her mouth. “Love?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “It’s worth waiting for, Claudia. It’s worth living and dying and killing for. It’s everything.”

“Ah!”

Pain, sudden and excruciating, clamped down on her womb like a vise. It robbed her of breath for a moment. Just when she thought it would ebb, it returned with even greater force, wrenching a scream from her throat. The room looked washed in orange and red, the color of alarm. This wasn’t false labor; this was something very wrong. She instantly rued every instance in which she’d disregarded the doctor’s orders or ignored Amelia’s advice. Perhaps she shouldn’t have climbed the stairs that morning. Perhaps she shouldn’t have eaten that rich pudding last night …

Please, she silently prayed. Please let the bothersome lump be unharmed.

“Mr. Faraday,” she panted, “I …” Another surge of pain. She gritted her teeth. “Something’s wrong. I need help.”

But Mr. Faraday—injured, hobbled Mr. Faraday—was already out of his chair …

And striding quickly from the room.

“Give it here, if you will.” Lily took the paper from Amelia’s grasp and scanned it quickly. A half-hour’s cajoling and several dozen nutmeats had resulted in a full page of avian ramblings. “It’s all the usual,” she noted with disappointment.

Oh, Julian. Guilty, guilty. Thank you, that will be all.

Endless permutations of the above, interspersed with whistles and squawks.

Then, toward the bottom of the page, she noted something new.

“‘Mr. James Bell,’” she read aloud. “Now that’s amusing. I wonder how he picked that up.”

“An acquaintance of yours?” Meredith asked.

“In a way.”

Lily was momentarily transported back to that darkened theater pit, seated on a cushioned bench aside her bookish, bespectacled beau. She’d been so amazed at his ability to transform his appearance and seem an entirely different man. Now, after these weeks of marriage, it amazed her that no one else saw him as she did. Society recognized Julian Bellamy as a collection of wild hair and wilder clothes and loud, brash behavior, never taking note of the man beneath. A quietly handsome man, with sincere blue eyes and a passion for fairness. Keen intelligence, and a thoughtful, tender way.

That man was her husband.

The plain truth of it is, I have always been unworthy of you. You don’t know the half of what I’ve done.

“I think,” Lily said slowly, “Mr. James Bell may be more than a mere acquaintance.”

Amelia jumped on her chair. “Oh. He just said something new. Just now.” She beckoned for the paper, and Lily gave it quickly.

Craning her neck, she watched over Amelia’s shoulder as her friend inscribed a single word.

“Jericho,” Lily read aloud. “Well, that’s not terribly helpful. Is it?”

“Could mean anything,” Meredith agreed. “Perhaps one of his previous owners was fond of scripture. It could be a servant’s name, or even the bird’s name.”

“Or a ship,” Amelia said. “That was Michael’s first assignment in the Navy. I’ll never forget it, having written him so many letters that year. He sailed from Plymouth on the HMS Jericho. The vessel’s been retired now. I remember he pointed it out to me once when we traveled to—” She grabbed Lily’s arm, and her eyes went wide. “To Greenwich. The Jericho is now moored in the Thames, near Woolwich. It’s a prison hulk.”