Ripe for Pleasure

CHAPTER 24   



Viola ushered her lover’s very angry sister into her bedroom and pushed her down into the chair at her dressing table. “Dry your eyes, repair your hair, powder your face, and remove that domino.”

Lady Boudicea met her gaze in the slightly tarnished mirror. The poor girl’s powder was streaked with tears, the blackening she’d used on her lashes liberally mixed in and running down her cheeks. Viola set a hand on her shoulder, but Leo’s sister shook it off.


“He’s angry only because he cares,” Viola said, “and you should be happy that he does. Not all of us are so lucky.”

Pen yawned from the settee Viola had moved into her chamber for her use, and returned to snoring. Viola set out the various things Leo’s sister would need to set herself to rights and then left her alone. She’d calm down sooner if left to her own devices. Being badgered or comforted would only prolong things.

Downstairs, she found Lord Leonidas, brandy glass in hand, staring moodily into the cold grate. He looked up as she came in and tossed back the contents of his glass. He was still stiff with repressed anger, every movement sharp.

“She’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.”

Leo nodded and wandered across the room to refill his glass. He drained it and filled it again.

Viola sighed. His temper was like a mad dog circling the room. She crossed the floor and took the glass from his hand. She took a sip and wandered back to the chairs that flanked the fireplace.

“Damnation, Vi, she’s got to learn. She’s got to—” The decanter exploded in the fireplace. Glass and brandy showered across her skirts. “Oh God, Vi. I’m—”

“Drunk and angry and behaving like an ass.” She stood up and shook out her skirts. Bits of glass flew out like birds startled from a tree. Her own temper spiraled up, threatening to swamp her better judgment. “Whatever you do, don’t come back here until you’ve mended that temper of yours, my lord. The world may think I’m your mistress, but I’m not being paid to put up with your distempered freaks.”

“No, I suppose you’re not.”

He was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. A shiver ran down her spine. He looked as though he could quite happily murder her.

The quick patter of feet on the stairs was a welcome interruption. Viola raked her gaze over Leo, shook her head in disgust, and hastened into the hall to find Lady Boudicea standing on the stairs, looking somewhat bewildered but otherwise restored to respectable order.

The girl swallowed, throat working as though raw. “I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble, ma’am.”

“No trouble at all, my dear.”

Leo pushed his way into the small hall, and his sister seemed to shrink. She didn’t actually flinch, but it was as though Viola could see the girl’s spirit crumble away.

Viola put a hand on her arm. “Just remember, not everyone gets a second chance.”

“Or a third or a fourth. Which is it now, Beau? How many times have you been snatched from the jaws of scandal?”

Lady Boudicea’s chin went up, her expression hardened. She looked very much as her brother had only a few minutes previously. “This would make three,” she replied with a hint of defiance.

“Then let’s see there’s not a fourth, shall we?”

“Sometimes I hate you.” Her hands balled into fists, crushing her skirts.

“Sometimes I hate myself.”

His sister stepped carefully over the tread they all knew squeaked, skirts carefully held up so she wouldn’t risk tripping over them. Leo did likewise, shoes clutched in one hand. They reached her room without waking anyone, and she dragged him inside.

“Leo?” Though she had washed her face, there was still a smudge of kohl along her jaw. He rubbed it away with his thumb, his anger nothing but ash now that she was safely home.

“Go to bed, brat.”

Beau bit her lip, eyes dropping to the floor. “I wasn’t being so very bad tonight. I swear.”

Leo sighed. Beau always had an excuse.

“It was a lark. Nothing more. I wanted to see Mrs. Whedon, and Charles said she’d be there tonight.”

Leo’s mouth went dry, tongue desiccated to the point of immobility. A strange buzzing filled his ears.

“But when we got there, we got separated in the crowd. And then I couldn’t find him…”

The buzzing grew louder, and a sick, panicked feeling swamped him. He’d never imagined Charles would hurt Beau. Him, yes. Viola, yes. But not Beau. It was his fault. His alone. Beau had every right to trust her cousin, every reason to do so. But not anymore. “I’m so sorry, Beau.”

Beau’s expression changed, the penitent look wiped away by dawning anger. “Are you telling me Charles left me there deliberately? He wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so either, dearest, but he did just that, and I’m afraid he did it because of me.”

“No, Leo. Charles wouldn’t do that. Not to me. Not because of some stupid fight with you.”

The sick feeling in his gut grew stronger. How did you tell someone that a man she’d known her entire life had used her as a pawn in a game that had nothing to do with her?

“Change into your dressing gown and come downstairs. I’ll explain everything, or I’ll try to do so, at any rate.”

Leo slipped down the hall to his own room and ripped off his coat. He was about to break his sister’s heart, and all over what appeared to be a nonexistent treasure. He wished to God he’d never found those damn letters, had never shared them with Charles.

When Beau joined him in the drawing room, she was attired in a lawn dressing gown, with her hair neatly braided and her face scrubbed clean. Just as though she’d never left the house that night but had slipped from bed upon hearing him come home.

He poured them both a drink and claimed a seat beside her. Beau blinked at him and sipped at her brandy. Leo raked his hand through his hair and shook it loose from its queue. His scalp tingled almost painfully.

“What do you remember about Grandfather? About his tales of the family and the forty-five?”

Beau cocked her head. “The same things you remember, I’d guess: family and friendship splintered by the war, his guilt over the ruin of Charles’s family…”

“The prince’s treasure?”

Her eyes widened.

“It’s real, Beau. Or at least it was at the time. I found an extended correspondence detailing it at Dyrham.”

“First you accuse Charles and now Grandfather? Leo!” She shook her head, hair falling to hide her face.

“No. Good Lord, no. Not Grandfather. Mr. Black, whom he bought Dyrham from, seems to have been deeply involved. And Grandfather’s guilt would explain why he bought it—a small, random estate, hundreds of miles from the family seat. He did it so his friend could leave the country before his complicity was found out.”

“And the treasure?”

“The letters trace it back to a house in London and no further. We all know it never reached the prince, and though it may have been stolen by whoever had charge of it when Bonnie Prince Charlie fled, Mr. Black’s letters indicate otherwise. There’s an extended argument about its disposition. Mr. Black arguing for their right to take it; Mr. Connall that they must keep it in trust for the prince, something about leaving it hidden and trusting it to Mr. Thaddeus. Devil knows who that is, for there are no letters from him at all.”

“And you think Mr. Connall won?”

“Yes, but only because Mr. Black was forced to flee the country. There’s evidence that Mr. Connall did as well. And though I can’t prove anything, my gut tells me it’s still where Mr. Connall left it.”

She raised her brows.

“In number twelve Chapel Street.”

“And Mrs. Whedon knows you’re looking for it?”

His expression must have told her the answer, though he could have sworn not so much as a muscle twitched or moved.

“Oh, Leo.” The look of pity on his sister’s face nearly broke him. “She’s never going to forgive you.”

No, she wasn’t, and he was going to have to tell her. It was becoming inevitable. She had to be on her guard, and the excuse of Sir Hugo had been played out.

“And the devil of it is, Beau, I can’t find it. And Charles won’t believe me.”

“I still don’t understand. What has this got to do with me?”

“Nothing, except that Charles will do whatever it takes to hobble me, and ruining you would certainly cause me grief. You know Charles’s temper. When he works himself up into one of his rages… He wants this, wants it badly, and he’s willing to sacrifice whatever it takes to get it. And that includes you.”

“It’s monstrous. I’d say you were making it up—I want to say you’re making it up!—but you’re not, are you?” She twisted her empty glass in her fingers. For the second time that evening, her eyes welled up, but this wasn’t the angry histrionics of the coach. This was far worse. Something vital had been crushed right out of her.

“I don’t think I can stand it, Leo.”

“Don’t you think I understand? Charles always felt more like a brother than Glennalmond, and now…” He let the statement hang in the air. What else was there to say? Their cousin had become a monster.

“So, no treasure, and now your cousin is willing to sacrifice Lady Boudicea on the altar of his ambition?” Sandison, expression somber for once, met Leo’s gaze with a look of concern that Leo frankly hadn’t been sure his friend was capable of. “You are in a pickle, my friend.”

Leo sank lower in his chair, foot propped against the leg of the table. “I’d be willing to let him have the damn treasure at this point, except I don’t think it exists.”


“Not that MacDonald will ever believe that.” Devere leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, clearly thinking. “Hell, I don’t believe it myself, and I’ve searched that house from cellar to garret.”

“We did find an empty safe.” Thane’s voice rumbled across the table.

“And a secret stair that leads from the main bedchamber up to one of the servant’s rooms.” Sandison waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Very handy for some.”

“And now you have the additional problem of keeping not only Mrs. Whedon safe from your cousin but your sister and possibly the rest of your family, too.” Thane’s expression was pinched with irritation.

“Charles isn’t fool enough to threaten my mother. At least I don’t think he is, and Beau is wise to the game now. But I’d take it as a kindness if you could all keep your eye on her.”

Thane nodded, but Devere and Sandison both smiled. “Are you actually giving us permission to dance attendance on your sister?” Devere asked.

Leo narrowed his eyes at them. “Within reason.”

“Better the wolves you know…” Sandison added, still grinning.

“Something like that,” Leo agreed. “If only it were so easy with Mrs. Whedon.”

“Well, it would be if you’d been honest with her from the start.” Thane’s comment dropped into the circle with the explosive power of a mortar. “You’d have been able to search with impunity. But you were greedy. And foolish. And now it’s too late, and if anything happens to her, it’s on your head.”

The same sickening feeling he’d had when talking to his sister took up residence once more in his gut. Confessing to Viola was going to be a thousand times worse. He’d been hoping his friends might have some other suggestion.

“But if you tell her, she’s likely to show you the door.”

“And replace you with Throckmorton.”

“Or Darnley.”

“Or any of the other dozen or so men who’re panting to take your place.”

Leo blinked as his friends all chimed in like the chorus in a Greek tragedy. “The dozen or so who’re what?”

Sandison rolled his eyes in disgust. “She’d retired to write her memoir. Now she’s back in the game. There are bets in every book in town as to when she’ll throw you over.”

“You’re not exactly in her normal line, you know,” Devere added helpfully. “Not nearly wealthy enough. None of us are. Well”—he paused as he thought about it—“maybe de Moulines. Bastard or no, his father left him quite a tidy fortune.”

“Are you joking?”

“Not at all.” Sandison knocked back the last of his ale and set his empty glass down hard enough to make it ring. “Even some of her former protectors are keen to reenter the lists. And wouldn’t that complicate things?”