Never Love a Scoundrel (29 page)

The parchment was flat and had clearly been opened. Lydia suppressed her outrage. “Did you read this?”

Finally, Aunt Margaret raised her gaze, though she looked anything but remorseful. Indeed, she looked harassed. “It’s from your father.”

Smothering a scowl, Lydia went to sit in a chair and perused the brief letter. Two sentences in, her stomach dropped to her feet, and she felt as if she’d run up three flights of stairs.

He wasn’t going to fund another Season.

After six years, he’d decided it was time for her to come back to Northumberland. Mr. Jarvis’s wife had died last winter and he was looking for a replacement. A
replacement
? Could he not have used a . . .
kinder
word?

“It appears you’re out of time.”

Lydia looked up and couldn’t decide if Aunt Margaret’s expression was smug or unsympathetic. Both, she supposed. And Lydia couldn’t stifle her ire any longer. “You read my letter?”

Aunt Margaret’s eyes narrowed, pitching her brows low. “You should know by now that you don’t have
any
secrets from me.”

The frigid way in which she delivered the statement sent shivers of dread down Lydia’s spine. What did she know? Had she somehow learned of Lydia’s activities the other day? Sweat beaded the back of her neck, and her extremities went cold.

Aunt Margaret leaned over the oval table separating her from Lydia and tossed two more pieces of parchment in her lap. “Your other letter. Or should I say ‘letters.’”

Lydia glanced down and recognized Audrey’s hand.
Oh, no.
Aunt Margaret had opened Audrey’s letter, too. And since there was a second piece of paper, Lydia determined that Jason’s latest missive had been enclosed. What had he written? Nausea tossed Lydia’s belly until she truly thought she might be sick.

Slowly, Lydia shuffled the papers to bring Jason’s to the top. Only, it hadn’t been written by Jason; it had been penned by North and contained a brief update about invitation responses and flowers. Lydia relaxed slightly, but the letter was still damning. Now Aunt Margaret knew she’d continued to help with Jason’s party.

Working past the anxiety balled in her throat, Lydia asked, “What are you going to do?”

“The question is, what are
you
going to do?” Aunt Margaret said softly. “You have two very distinct choices: Help me ruin Lockwood’s party or take the first mail coach to Northumberland.”

Lydia clutched the stack of papers in her trembling hands. “My father didn’t ask me to return immediately.” He’d said he’d come to collect Lydia in a month’s time.

“Lydia, you reside here by my good graces. Yes, your father gives me a stipend on your behalf, but it has always been my discretion to send you home at any time. I am quite content to decide that time is now, though I admit I will be disappointed. We had a very good alliance, and I simply don’t understand your rebellion.” She actually sounded let down, as if Lydia had once been a source of great pride and had now failed her. But then, that’s probably how she saw things in her twisted way.

Lydia straightened her shoulders. She was proud of the way she’d changed, even if Aunt Margaret wasn’t. “I don’t enjoy ruining people’s evenings or worse, their lives. When I was popular last spring after the wagering incident, people began to genuinely like me.” Until Aunt Margaret had drawn her into her web of gossip once more.

“You’re still popular,” Aunt Margaret said dismissively.

“More like feared.”

Aunt Margaret stared at Lydia as if she were a lunatic. “It’s better than being nothing, like your pathetic follower, Miss Cheswick.”

Lydia inhaled sharply. “Audrey isn’t pathetic. She’s a true friend. I’d rather have one of her than a legion of people cowering at my feet.”

Aunt Margaret smirked. “Lucky for you, then, that you have both.”

Lydia’s endurance snapped. “Is it too much to want love? A husband? A family of my own?”

“In a word, yes. You can have the latter two—if you really want them—but love is for fools. When will you realize the world is ruthless? If you don’t guard yourself, including your heart, you’ll be the one who’s ruined. You’re so terribly close . . . ” She let the innuendo hang in the air.

Fear froze Lydia’s veins to ice. What else did Aunt Margaret know?

Lydia scrutinized her aunt’s currently placid features for any indication that she knew of Lydia’s indiscretion, but there was nothing. Perhaps she was only referring to Lydia assisting Jason. “You’re angry with me for helping Lord Lockwood.”

“Certainly,” she answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “You know I can’t tolerate him. Your betrayal is a slap in my face. I won’t have it. You’ll help me ruin his party on Friday, or I’ll send you packing immediately. Do you understand?”

Quite clearly, but how could Lydia possibly promise to ruin Jason? Even if he wished they’d never met, she was long past the point of being able to consider hurting him.

Aunt Margaret watched her shrewdly. “I can see that you’re weighing your decision carefully. Let me make it easy for you. Help me ruin his party, and I’ll let you stay until you marry.
I’ll
fund your expenses and convince your father to let you stay. If you refuse, you’ll be on your way to Northumberland by this time tomorrow.”

A devil’s bargain—and one she couldn’t accept. However, if she didn’t, Jason would be ruined. Unless she was at the party to hopefully stop whatever her aunt planned, which meant she couldn’t leave for Northumberland until after.

She’d have to agree to help Aunt Margaret—at least ostensibly.

Still, once Aunt Margaret witnessed Lydia working against her at the party, Lydia would find herself traveling north come Saturday. But it would be worth it to help Jason. He deserved to find happiness—even if it wasn’t with her.

“Fine. I’ll help you.” They were difficult words to utter, and they sounded that way: dark and scratchy as if saying them were the equivalent of carrying a load of stone across London.

“Good girl.” Aunt Margaret flashed a terrible smile. “I’m not asking you to do anything you haven’t done before.”

How Lydia wished she could refute that, say she’d never sunk to such depths, but it wasn’t true. She
had
. Mortification sliced through her.

Aunt Margaret lowered her tone as if she were imparting a secret—a dramatic tool she enjoyed. “Do remember that no matter where you are—London or the wilds of Northumberland—I have the power to ensure you’re never accepted.”

Lydia’s throat constricted. How could she be so cruel? What had happened to make her such an awful person?

“Now,” Aunt Margaret said sitting straighter and adopting a business-filled tone, “I saw from the letter that Lockwood is expecting nearly one hundred and fifty guests on Friday.” Her eyes glowed with excitement. “So many will witness his humiliation.”

Lydia resisted the urge to scream. She could help Jason best if she knew what Aunt Margaret was scheming. “What do you plan to do?”

Aunt Margaret shook her head, her lips curving into an imperious smile. “Oh, no. I don’t trust you enough to actually share the details with you beforehand. But you’ll know it when it happens, and I’ll expect you to spread the information like a wildfire in midsummer.”

“Yes, Aunt Margaret.” Lydia didn’t bother trying to sound enthused. What was the point when Aunt Margaret was well aware she was consenting against her will?

Aunt Margaret scooted forward on the settee and pursed her lips in a thoroughly patronizing manner. “I know you think I’m harsh, but I only want what’s best for you. I want to protect you from the vultures of the ton.”

Lydia wanted to argue that
they
were the vultures.

Aunt Margaret’s eyes narrowed, but her smile remained. “And yes, the surest way to guard yourself is to be one.”

JASON MOVED
through the Lamb and Flag Tavern toward the Bucket of Blood. He didn’t know whether Ethan would be here, but hoped so, particularly since he’d sent a note after failing to run him to ground at the Bevelstoke, despite multiple visits.

Not that Ethan had responded. No, Jason’s sole correspondence that day had been a letter from Miss Cheswick stating she could no longer act as intermediary between him and Lydia. She hadn’t indicated why, which concerned Jason, but he’d have to deal with that problem tomorrow. Tonight, he needed answers from his half brother.

“Lockwood.”

The deep sound of his name drew Jason’s attention to a corner of the Lamb and Flag’s common room, where Ethan was seated.

Jason weaved past a few tables and took a chair to his left. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”

Ethan’s hand was casually wrapped around a glass of whisky atop the table. “I wasn’t sure I would either, but it seems safe enough for now.”

He couldn’t expect that cryptic comment to go without notice? Jason reached for the bottle of whisky and filled the sole empty tumbler, the rim of which was chipped. “You’re concerned about your safety?”

Ethan held up his whisky. “A toast?”

Jason stared at him a moment, wondering if he could actually share something so . . . civilized with this man. Maybe it would help loosen Ethan’s tongue. Jason raised his glass. “To sharing a drink.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Ethan finished his whisky and poured another. “I’ve been avoiding a certain Bow Street Runner.”

That explained why Jason hadn’t found Ethan at the Bevelstoke. “Why?”

Ethan shrugged. He didn’t appear particularly concerned, though his gaze made a steady and continuous perusal of the premises. “I’m just not in the mood to speak with him.”

How could Ethan be so careless when he was being investigated? Especially when evidence was starting to mount against him—if Carlyle was to be believed. But maybe Ethan didn’t know. “I know why he wants to find you.”

“Oh?” Ethan asked with an air of nonchalance. “I don’t suppose it has something to do with the list that went missing from my bedchamber at the Bevelstoke?”

Jason swallowed a mouthful of whisky before responding. Of course Ethan had discovered its disappearance, but did he suspect Jason or Carlyle of taking it? Jason didn’t plan to lie about being there. “It does.”

“Who gave it to Bow Street?” Ethan’s eyes and voice hardened. “Please tell me it wasn’t you.”

“No. It was Carlyle.”

Ethan’s lip twisted with disappointment. “I figured. I assumed you hadn’t gained expert lock-picking skills. But you went with him?”

Jason shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t felt right about going into his rooms, but Ethan hadn’t left him much choice. “How else was I supposed to learn your plans? It’s not as if you were being forthcoming.” Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly and Jason added, “For what it’s worth, I hadn’t planned on showing him the list. He caught me with it just after I’d found it.”

Ethan appeared nonplussed. “Thank you.”

Jason shifted in his chair and took another swig of whisky. He wasn’t sure he was ready for gratitude. “Don’t thank me yet. I’d planned to demand you reveal what the hell you’re doing—something I’m still going to demand.”

“Ah.” Ethan inclined his head. “You want to know why I had a list of addresses—some of them on streets where robberies have occurred as of late.”

Thank God Ethan wasn’t stupid. Jason could suffer a lot of things from his half brother, but didn’t think he could tolerate foolishness. “Yes.”

“I’m afraid that falls under the category of Things I Can’t Tell You.”

Jason slammed his fist on the table and leaned toward Ethan. “Horseshit! I’m sick of this game. Either you want to change or you don’t. You can’t expect me to trust you if you don’t demonstrate a little trust yourself.”

Ethan’s eyes glittered coldly in the dim light of the common room. “It’s nothing personal, brother. I don’t trust anybody.” The words were uttered with an edge of steel, but underneath there was an inflection of bitterness and regret.

That sounded . . . lonely. “No one at all?”

“And just who would I trust?” Ethan set his glass down. “My mother is dead. Our father is dead. You’ve made no secret about the fact that you wish I were dead. Or at least you did until very recently.”

Jason didn’t like the uneasiness creeping up his spine. “What about your mother’s protector? I thought he’d taken you under his wing.”

Ethan’s laugh was dark and hollow. “He was a corrupt magistrate, so yes, I guess you could say he tutored me well. But he was all I had until he was hanged. There is no one I would trust.”

“Not even me?”

“Not even you.” Ethan swept up his glass and took a drink.

Jason gritted his teeth. How could they possibly move forward if Ethan held him in such disregard? Maybe they couldn’t. But Jason would try—just this once. He flattened his palm against the pocked tabletop and took a deep breath. “If you told me, perhaps I could help you.”

Ethan narrowed one eye in a rather skeptical manner. “You want to help me avoid Bow Street?”

That wasn’t the underlying issue, and Ethan knew it. “I want to help you be safe. Not just for now, for good.” Christ, when the bloody hell had that become something Jason would ever want to do? A fortnight ago, he would’ve dragged Ethan to Bow Street, or brought Teague along to this meeting. But for whatever reason, he wasn’t ready to consign his half brother to gaol—or worse.