Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels Read online

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “A woman?”

  She slapped her hand into his, irritation flaring. “I should have let you die in the ring.”

  For years, he had been a near-nightly attraction at The Fallen Angel. Those in debt to the club had one way of winning back their fortunes—beating the unbeatable Temple in the ring. An injury and a wife had retired him from boxing.

  “You don’t mean it.” Temple tugged her into the light. “Smile.”

  She did as she was told, feeling like an imbecile. “I do mean it.”

  He collected her in his arms. “You don’t, but as you are terrified of this world and what you are about to do, I shan’t press you on the subject.”

  She stiffened. “I am not terrified.”

  He cut her a look. “Of course you are. You think I don’t understand it? You think Bourne doesn’t? And Cross?” he added, referring to the two other owners of the gaming hell. “We’ve all had to crawl out of the muck and back into the light. We’ve all had to clamor for acceptance from this world.”

  “It’s different for men.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Surprise crossed his face and she realized that she had accepted his premise. “Damn.”

  He lowered his voice. “You will have to control your language if you want them to believe you’re a tragic case mislabeled a scandal.”

  “I was doing perfectly well before you arrived.”

  “You were hiding in the corner.”

  “It was not hiding.”

  “What was it then?”

  “Waiting.”

  “For those assembled to issue you a formal apology?”

  “I was rather hoping for them to drop dead of plague,” she grumbled.

  He chuckled. “If wishing made it so.” He spun her across the floor, the candles lit around the room leaving trails of light across her field of vision. “Langley has arrived.”

  The viscount had entered not five minutes earlier. She’d noticed immediately. “I saw.”

  “You don’t expect a real marriage from him,” Temple said.

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why not do what you do best?”

  Her gaze flickered to the handsome man on the other side of the room. Her choice for husband. “You think blackmail is the best way to go about securing a husband?”

  He smiled. “I was blackmailed in advance of finding a wife.”

  “Yes, well, I am told that most men are not such masochists, Temple. You’ve been saying I should marry. You and Bourne and Cross,” she added, ticking off her partners in The Fallen Angel. “Not to mention my brother.”

  “Ah, yes, I’ve heard that the Duke of Leighton has placed a heavy dowry on your head. It’s remarkable you are able to stand upright. But what of love?”

  “Love?” It was difficult to voice the word without the disdain.

  “You’ve heard of it, no doubt. Sonnets and poems and happy-ever-after?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” she said. “As we are discussing marriage at best for convenience and at worst for debt relief, I hardly think a lack of love is of issue,” she said. “And besides, it is a fool’s errand.”

  He watched her for a long moment. “Then you are surrounded by fools.”

  She cut him a look. “Every one of you. Besotted beyond reason. And look at what has happened because of it.”

  He raised his dark brows. “What? Marriage? Children? Happiness?”

  She sighed. They’d had the conversation a hundred times. A thousand. Her partners were so idyllically matched that they could not help but foist it on everyone around them. What they did not know was that idyll was not for Georgiana. She pushed the thought away. “I am happy,” she lied.

  “No. You are rich. And you are powerful. But you are not happy.”

  “Happiness is too highly prized,” she said with a shrug, as he turned her across the room. “It’s worth nothing.”

  “It’s worth everything.” They danced in silence for a long moment. “Which you see, as you wouldn’t be doing this if not for happiness.”

  “Not mine. Caroline’s.”

  Her daughter. Growing older by the second. Nine years old, soon ten, soon twenty. And the reason Georgiana was here. She looked up at her hulking partner, this man who had saved her as many times as she had saved him. Told him the truth. “I thought I could keep her from it,” she said quietly. “I steered clear of her.”

  For years. To the detriment of them both.

  “I know,” he said quietly, and she was grateful for the dance that kept her from having to meet his gaze too often. She didn’t know that she could.

  “I tried to keep her safe,” she repeated. But a mother could keep a child safe for only so long. “But it wasn’t enough. She’ll need more if she’s to climb out of our swill.”

  Georgiana had done her best, sending Caroline to live at her brother’s home, doing her best to never sully her with the circumstances of her birth.

  And it had worked, until it hadn’t.

  Until last month.

  “You can’t be talking about the cartoon,” he said.

  “Of course I’m talking about the cartoon.”

  “No one gives a damn about scandal sheets.”

  She cut Temple a look. “That isn’t true and you of all people know it.”

  The rumors had abounded—that her brother had told her she could not have a season, that she’d begged him. That he’d insisted that, as an unwed mother, she remain indoors. That she’d pleaded with him. That neighbors had heard screaming. Wailing. Cursing. That the duke had exiled her and she’d returned without his permission.

  The gossip pages had gone wild, each trying to outdo the other with tales of the return of Georgiana Pearson, Lady Disrepute.

  The most popular of the rags, The Scandal Sheet, had run the legendary cartoon—scandalizing and somewhat blasphemous, Georgiana high atop a horse, wrapped only her hair, holding a swaddled baby with the face of a girl. Part Lady Godiva, part Virgin Mary, with the disdainful Duke of Leighton standing by, watching, horrified.

  She’d ignored the cartoon, as one did, until one week prior, when an uncommonly warm day had tempted half of London into Hyde Park. Caroline had begged for a ride, and Georgiana had reluctantly left her work to join her. It had not been the first time they’d appeared in public, but it had been the first time since the cartoon, and Caroline had noticed the stares.

  They’d dismounted on a rise leading down to the Serpentine, grey and muddy with late winter, and led the horses down toward the lake where a group of girls barely older than Caroline stood the way girls did—in a cluster of whispers and barbs. Georgiana had seen it enough times to know that no group of girls like this one would bring any good.

  But Caroline’s hope had shone on her bright young face, and Georgiana hadn’t had the heart to pull her away. Even as she was desperate to do just that.

  Caroline had moved closer to the girls, all while attempting to look as though her movement was unintentional. Unplanned. How was it that all girls everywhere knew this movement? The quiet sidle that hinted of simultaneous optimism and fear? The silent request for notice?

  It was a miracle of courage born of youth and folly.

  The girls noticed Georgiana first, recognizing her, no doubt from bearing witness to the wide eyes and wagging tongues of their mothers, and they surmised Caroline’s identity within seconds, heads lifting and craning while whispers increased. Georgiana hung back, resisting the urge to step between the bears and their bait. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps there would be kindness. Greeting. Acceptance.

  And then the leader of the group saw her.

  She and Caroline were rarely identified as mother and daughter. She was young enough for them to be mislabeled as sisters, and Georgiana, while she did not hide from Society, rarely entered it.

  But the moment the pretty blond girl’s eyes went wide with recognition—curse all gossiping mothers—Georgiana knew t
hat Caroline done for. She wanted desperately to stop her. To end it before it could begin.

  She took a step forward, toward them.

  Too late.

  “The park is not what it used to be,” said the girl, with knowledge and scorn beyond her years. “They allow anyone simply to wander here. With no regard to pedigree.”

  Caroline froze, reins of her beloved horse forgotten in her hand as she pretended not to hear. As she tried not to hear.

  “Or parentage,” another girl said with cruel glee.

  And there it was, hovering in the air. The unspoken word.

  Bastard.

  Georgiana wanted to slap their faces.

  The gaggle tittered, gloved hands flying to lips, ostensibly hiding smiles even as teeth flashed. Caroline turned toward her, green eyes liquid.

  Don’t cry, Georgiana willed. Don’t let them see that they’ve struck true.

  She wasn’t sure if the words were for herself or her daughter.

  Caroline did not cry, though her cheeks blazed with color. Embarrassed of her birth. Of her mother. Of a dozen things she could not change.

  She returned to Georgiana’s side then, moving idly, stroking the neck of her mount, fairly wandering—bless her—as though to prove that she would not be chased away.

  When she returned, Georgiana had been so proud, she’d had difficulty speaking past the knot in her throat. She hadn’t had to speak. Caroline had spoken first, loud enough to be heard. “Or politesse.”

  Georgiana had laughed her shock, even as Caroline had mounted her horse and looked down at her. “I shall race you to the Grosvenor Gate.”

  They’d raced. And Caroline had won. Twice in one morning.

  But how often would she lose?

  The question returned her to the present. To the ballroom, to the dance, in the arms of the Duke of Lamont, surrounded by the aristocracy. “She has no future,” Georgiana said quietly. “I destroyed it.”

  Temple sighed.

  She continued. “I thought I could buy her entrance to wherever she liked. I told myself that Chase could open any door into which she desired entry.”

  Her words were quiet, and the dance kept anyone from hearing the conversation. “Not without people asking questions about why the owner of a gaming hell is so concerned about the bastard daughter of a lady.”

  Her teeth clenched tight. She’d made so many promises in her life—promises to teach Society a well-deserved lesson. Promises never to bow to them.

  Promises never to let them touch her daughter.

  But some vows, no matter how firm, could not be kept.

  “I wield such power, and still, not enough to save a little girl.” She paused. “If I don’t do this, what will happen to her?”

  “I’ll keep her safe,” the duke vowed. “As will you. And the others.” An earl. A marquess. Her business partners, each wealthy and titled and powerful. “Your brother.”

  And yet . . .

  “And when we’re gone? What then? When we are gone, she’ll have a legacy, filled with sin and vice. She’ll have a life of darkness.”

  Caroline deserved better. Caroline deserved everything.

  “She deserves light,” she said, to herself as much as to Temple.

  And Georgiana would give it to her.

  Caroline would want a life of her own. Children. More.

  To ensure she could have those things, Georgiana had only one choice. She must marry. The thought brought her back to the moment, her gaze falling to the man across the room, whom she had chosen as her future husband. “The viscount’s title will help.”

  “And the title is all you require?”

  “It is,” she replied. “A title worthy of her. Something that will win her the life she wants. She might never be respected, but a title secures her future.”

  “There are other ways,” he said.

  “What other ways?” she asked. “Consider my sister-in-law. Consider your wife. They are barely accepted here, untitled, scandalous.” His eyes narrowed at the words, but she pressed on. “The title saves them. Hell, you supposedly murdered a woman and weren’t fully cast out because you were a duke first, a possible killer second—you could have married if you’d chosen to. The title is what reigns. And it always will.

  “There will always be women after titles and men after dowries. God knows Caroline’s dowry will be as big as it needs to be, but it won’t be enough. She’ll always be my daughter. She’ll always carry my mark. As it stands, even if she found love—even if she wanted it—no decent man could marry her. But if I marry Langley? Then she has the possibility of a future devoid of my sin.”

  He was quiet for a long minute, and she was grateful for it. When he finally spoke, it was to ask, “Then why not involve Chase? You need the name, Langley needs a wife, and we are the only people in London who know why. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  Under the guise of Chase, founder of London’s most desired men’s club, Georgiana had manipulated dozens of members of Society. Hundreds of them. Chase had destroyed men and elevated them. Chase had made matches and ruined lives. She could easily manipulate Langley into marriage by invoking Chase’s name and the information he had on the viscount.

  But need was not want, and perhaps it was her keen understanding of that balance—of the fact that the viscount needed marriage as much as she did, but wanted it just as little—that made her hesitate. “I am hoping that the viscount will agree that the arrangement is mutually beneficial without Chase’s interference.”

  Temple was quiet for a long moment. “Chase’s interference would speed up this process.”

  True, but it would also make for a terrible marriage. If she could win Langley without blackmail, all the better. “I’ve a plan,” she said.

  “And if it goes to waste?”

  She thought of Langley’s file. Slim, but damning. A list of names, all male. She ignored the sour taste in her mouth. “I have blackmailed bigger men.”

  He shook his head. “Every time I am reminded that you are a woman, you say something like that . . . and Chase is returned.”

  “He is not easily hidden.”

  “Not even when you are so . . .” He made a show of looking at her feathered coif. “Ladylike is, I suppose, the word for this ensemble?”

  She was saved from having to either spar with Temple or further discuss the lengths to which she was willing to go for her daughter’s future by the orchestra’s completion of the set. She pulled away and curtsied, as was expected. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She emphasized the title as she stood once more. “I believe I shall take some air.”

  “Alone?” he asked, an edge in his tone.

  Frustration flared. “You think I cannot care for myself?” She was the founder of London’s most infamous gaming hell. She’d destroyed more men than she could count.

  “I think you should take care of your reputation,” Temple replied.

  “I assure you that if a gentleman attempts liberties, I shall slap his hand.” She smiled a wide, false smile and dipped her head, coyly. “Go to your wife, Your Grace. And thank you for the dance.”

  He held her hand tightly for a moment, until she met his gaze again, and he cautioned softly, “You cannot beat them. You know that, don’t you? No matter how hard you try—Society will always win.”

  The words made her suddenly, unpredictably furious. She tamped down the emotion and replied, “You are wrong. And I intend to prove it.”

  Chapter 2

  The conversation had unsettled her.

  The evening had unsettled her.

  And Georgiana did not care for being unsettled, which was why she had so long resisted this moment—her return to Society and its prying, judging gaze. She’d hated it from the start, a decade earlier. Hated the way it followed her every time she dressed for Mayfair’s streets instead of the floor of her casino. Hated the way it mocked her inside modistes’ shops and haberdasheries, in bookshops and on the steps of her brother’
s home. Hated the way it sealed her daughter’s fate—the way it had done so long before Caroline had drawn breath.

  She’d exacted her revenge for the judgment, building a temple to sin at the center of Society, collecting the secrets of its members day after day for six years. The men who gamed at The Fallen Angel did not know that every card they turned, every die they cast, was the purview of a woman their wives shunned at every possible moment.

  Nor did they know that their secrets had been collected with care, cataloged and made ready for use when Chase needed them most.

  But for some reason, this place, these people, their untouchable world was already changing her, making her hesitate where she would never before have hesitated. Before, she might have lay Viscount Langley’s future out before him in terms black and plain—marry her or suffer the consequences.

  But now, she knew too well what those consequences were, and she did not care for throwing another to the wolves of scandal.

  Not that she wouldn’t if it came to that.

  But she hoped there was another way.

  She stepped onto the balcony of the Worthington House ballroom and took a deep breath, desperate for the way the fresh air tricked her into believing that she was free of this night and these obligations.

  The April night was crisp and full of promise, and she moved from the ballroom into the darkness, where she felt more comfortable. Once there, she released her breath and leaned against the marble balustrade.

  Three minutes. Five at the most. And then she’d return. She was here for a reason, after all. There was a prize at the end of this game, one that, if won well, would mean safety and security and a life for Caroline that Georgiana could never give her.

  Anger flared at the thought. She had power beyond imagination. With the stroke of a pen, with a signal to the floor of her hell, she could destroy a man. She held the secrets of Britain’s most influential men, and their wives. She knew more about the aristocracy than they knew about themselves.

  But she could not protect her daughter. She could not give her the life she deserved.

  Not without them.

  Not without their approval.

  And so she was here, in white, feathers protruding from her head, wanting nothing more than to walk into the dark gardens and keep going until she reached the wall, scaled it, and found her way home to her club. To the life she had built. The one she had chosen.