Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

The newspaper rustled. “I reckon it is.”


Dillard was the most spoiled, useless valet in all London. Normally, Julian demanded competence and efficiency from all people in his employ, but he made an exception for his personal servants. In this house, indolence and a marked lack of curiosity were desirable traits. Julian only kept Dillard on for appearances. Or rather, not for appearances. That was a valet’s usual post, of course—tending his gentleman employer’s appearance in all particulars: bathing, shaving, attire, and more. But where his own appearance was concerned, Julian attended to every detail on his own, save the laundering, pressing, and boot-blacking.

He lowered his weight to a bench and removed his boots. “I’m off to bed,” he told Dillard, setting the boots neatly to one side. “Not to be disturbed. See that these are polished by tonight.”

Another grunt.

Julian left the man to his paper and crossed into his dressing room. It was a large space, formerly a bedchamber in its own right, but he’d had it fitted with custom shelving and mirrors. He tossed his befouled topcoat in the grate and stripped to his skin. After a hasty bath and a close shave, he wrapped an Oriental-patterned silk banyan about his torso.

With grave deliberation, he selected a set of clothing for that evening. He had a new waistcoat in pigeon’s blood red, and this he laid aside for pressing, along with a royal blue topcoat with brass trim and charcoal-gray pantaloons. From his row of sixteen hats, he selected a jaunty blue felt with a red band. The color combination was revolting. But he needed to draw notice tonight, even more so than usual.

Though he’d opposed the idea initially, on reflection he saw the potential in this social scheme of Lily’s. His investigative efforts were going nowhere. By withdrawing from public life, he’d given his enemy a sense of complacency.

These were the inescapable facts: In trying to kill Julian, someone had killed Leo instead. If Julian wanted justice for Leo’s murder, he would have to draw the cowardly rat out of hiding—by making himself the bait.

He’d start with dinner tonight, then a genial round of the clubs. All very friendly, all very tame—even if he had to sit on his hands when Morland drew near, just to keep it so. He would remain on good behavior through a few scattered, sedate appearances—the three evenings he’d promised Lily. Once he’d reestablished his place at the top of every guest list and Lily’s marital prospects were assured … only then would Julian Bellamy lay his trap.

At the moment, however, Julian Bellamy was retiring to bed.

Once inside the richly appointed bedchamber, he locked the door behind him. And then he waited. When a few minutes had passed and he was certain no one was listening, he followed the golden path of the carpet’s Greek maze border, skirting the four-poster bed with its crimson velvet hangings, until he stood before a bookcase in the room’s farthest corner. He pulled a lever in the hidden recesses of the third shelf, then stepped back to let the panel swing out on its hinges.

On the other side of the false wall was a narrow, humble closet that belonged to the mercantile building in the rear.

The small space held a shelf of starched white shirts and cravats, a few folded pairs of trousers in neutral shades. Plain brass hooks supported a row of four coats: dun, gray, black, and dark blue. Two hats.

Tossing his banyan aside, he stepped through the hidden passageway and closed the panel behind him. His night as Julian Bellamy was over.

He was very late for his day as James Bell.

Chapter Four

Mr. James Bell did not employ a valet. Nor a cook, nor a butler, nor indeed a single footman. Just a charwoman to come in and sweep twice a week. She was an illiterate and perpetually harried woman, unlikely to snoop.

Mr. Bell was, however, a generous employer. He compensated said charwoman thrice the normal amount, and he treated his clerks well. Paid wages promptly, with annual rises in pay and bonuses at Christmas. Well-paid employees did not question or complain.

Mr. Bell lived in rooms above his business offices, and he kept eccentric hours. Though his dedication was above question, the clerks never knew at what time he might appear belowstairs. He’d let spread a vague rumor that he suffered from recurrent bouts of headache. Some mornings, they found him already behind his desk at eight, cravat-deep in accounting ledgers. Other days, like today, he didn’t appear until well after noon. This inconsistent schedule kept his clerks on constant alert.