Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)

“A bad dream,” he admitted. “That’s all.”


She laid her cheek to his chest. “It’s Leo, isn’t it? Are you thinking of him? It’s five months today.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Evidently it wasn’t scandal weighing her brow this morning, but a much more serious concern. Reclining against the headboard, he pulled her to his chest and hugged her close, wrapping his arms around her willowy body and stroking her long, dark hair.

“I know it’s hard for you,” she said. “Giving up the search. But just because you haven’t found them, it doesn’t mean Leo’s killers will go unpunished. Men who are bad will end badly. I have to believe in that.”

Julian understood why that thought might comfort her. But he didn’t find it especially reassuring, since he knew he fell into the “men who are bad” category himself.

He stroked her back in a soothing rhythm, in time with the distant still-tolling bells. Yes, darling. You believe in that. Just don’t stop to ask yourself why it is I’m here with you, and not jailed or worse.

Holy Christ.

Jailed.

The word was a blow to his skull, and his whole mind reverberated with the meaning. How stupid he’d been. How utterly, unbelievably dim. Where had Julian himself been, the one time in his life his friends and family had searched for him with no success? He’d been jailed, of course. Forced to spend a putrid, shivering month in Bridewell Prison, with all the other bad men—and boys—who had ended badly. Perhaps this was the reason his hunt for Leo’s killers remained fruitless all these months, even after an exhaustive search of London’s streets. Because they weren’t on the streets. They’d been incarcerated for some other crime.

God, it was all so clear to him now. So bloody obvious.

He would write to Levi Harris, reopen the investigation. Tell him to search every court record, every jail and prison log in England, and quickly. They may have been already released, or they may have gone to the gallows—who could say?

The prospect of answers dangled before him, shining and seductive.

But he’d promised Lily he’d stop looking. He’d done more than promise. He’d made vows.

“Justice is in God’s hands now,” she said, petting the line of dark hair down the center of his chest, “as it should be. We shall find retribution in sheer happiness. Don’t ever lose sleep over those men again.”

He gently dislodged her from his chest and sat up.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Those bells,” he said, frowning at the low, mournful peals. “So strange. It’s been minutes now, and they haven’t stopped.”

With those bells, married life was off to a rather unusual start.

Lily had steeled herself for a certain measure of scandal, once their marriage became common knowledge. Had either one of them married, it would have been a source of great excitement and gossip within the ton. For Lily and Julian to have married each other—and in such hasty, unexpected fashion—well, this would be a story responsible for many a tongue wagging over many a cup of cooled tea.

But on that morning, when the bells roused her husband from sleep and failed to cease tolling even after some time, Julian ventured downstairs to investigate and returned with shocking news.

Princess Charlotte had died in the night, some hours after giving birth to a stillborn babe.

With that, all England plunged into deep, formal mourning. The papers were filled with news of funeral arrangements and the relayed condolences of the world’s royalty. Parties were canceled, theaters closed. London emptied of laughter. No one paid any attention to the nuptials of a gently bred lady and an infamous rake.

It was all so very ironic. The world was too busy mourning to care about them, and behind the drawn shades of Harcliffe House, Lily and Julian were celebrating life.

Naturally, Lily shared the country’s shock and grief at Princess Charlotte’s untimely passing. After learning of the tragedy, she spent a stunned morning in her husband’s strong embrace. And as a vaguely connected relation of the royal family, she would of course attend the funeral. But she’d spent the past five months in mourning for Leo, and she seemed to have exhausted her reserve of melancholy. This was her honeymoon, and happiness would not be held at bay.