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

  She’d have to remove the gown to scale the wall, she supposed.

  The residents of Mayfair might take issue with that.

  The thought was punctuated by a passel of young women spilling out of the ballroom, giggling and whispering at a pitch the neighbors could no doubt hear. “I’m not surprised he offered to dance with her,” one was crowing. “No doubt he’s hoping she’ll marry a gambler who will spend all that money at his hell.”

  “Either way,” another replied, “she shan’t benefit from dancing with the Killer Duke.”

  Of course they were discussing her. She was no doubt the talk of the ton.

  “He is still a duke,” another offered. “Silly, false nickname or no.” That one was halfway intelligent. She’d never survive among her friends.

  “You don’t understand, Sophie. He isn’t really a duke.”

  Sophie disagreed. “He holds the title, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said the first, irritation in her tone. “But he was a fighter for so long, and he married so far beneath him, it’s not the same at all.”

  “But the laws of primogeniture—”

  Poor Sophie, using fact and logic to win the day. The others were having none of it. “It’s not important, Sophie. You never understand. The point is, she’s horrid. And enormous dowry or no, she’ll never land a husband of quality.”

  Georgiana rather thought it was the leader of this pack who was horrid, but was clearly in the minority, as the woman’s minions nodded and cooed agreeably.

  She moved closer, searching for a better vantage point. “It’s clear she’s after a title,” opined the leader, who was small and incredibly thin, and whose hair appeared to have been shot through with a collection of arrows.

  Georgiana realized that she was in no condition to cast the first stone on coiffures, what with the fact that she had half an egret’s plumage in her own hair, but arrows did seem a bit much.

  “She’ll never land a gentleman, even. An aristocrat is impossible. Not even a baronet.”

  “Technically, that’s not an aristocratic title,” Sophie pointed out.

  Georgiana could no longer hold her tongue. “Oh, Sophie, will you never learn? No one is interested in the truth.”

  The words cut through the darkness and the girls, six in all, turned en masse to face her, varying expressions of surprise on their faces. She probably should not have called attention to herself, but this was definitely a case of in for a penny, in for a pound.

  She stepped forward, into the light, and two of the women gasped. Sophie blinked. And the little Napoleon of a leader stared quite perfectly down her nose at Georgiana, who stood an easy eight inches above her. “You were not included in the conversation.”

  “But I should be, don’t you think? As its subject?”

  She’d give the other girls credit; they all had the decency to look chagrined. Not so their leader. “I do not wish to be seen conversing with you,” she said cruelly, “I would be afraid your scandal would stain me.”

  Georgiana smiled. “I wouldn’t let that worry you. My scandal has always sought out . . .” She paused. “. . . higher ground.”

  Sophie’s eyes went wide.

  Georgiana pressed on. “Do you have a name?”

  Eyes narrowed. “Lady Mary Ashehollow.”

  Of course she was an Ashehollow. Her father was one of the most disgusting men in London—a womanizer and a drunk who had no doubt brought the pox home to his wife. But he was Earl of Holborn, and thus accepted by this silly world. She thought back on the file The Fallen Angel had on the earl and his family—his countess a wicked gossip who would no doubt happily drown kittens if she thought it would help her move up in the social structure. Two children, a boy at school and a girl, two seasons out.

  A girl no better than her parents, evidently.

  Indeed, lady or no, the girl deserved a thorough dressing-down. “Tell me. Are you betrothed?”

  Mary stilled. “It’s only my second season.”

  Georgiana advanced, enjoying herself. “One more and you’re on the shelf, aren’t you?”

  A hit. The girl’s gaze flitted away and back so quickly that another might have missed it. Another who was not Chase. “I have a number of suitors.”

  “Mmm.” Georgiana thought back to Holborn’s file. “Burlington and Montlake, I understand—they’ve got enough debt to overlook your faults for access to your dowry—”

  “You’re one to talk about faults. And dowries.” Mary chortled.

  The poor girl didn’t know that Georgiana had five years of life and fifty years of experience on her. Experience dealing with creatures far worse than a little girl with a sharp tongue. “Ah, but I do not pretend that my dowry is unnecessary, Mary. Lord Russell does perplex, however. What’s a decent man like him doing sniffing around someone like you?”

  Mary’s mouth went wide. “Someone like me?”

  Georgiana leaned back. “With your appalling lack of social grace, I mean.”

  The barb hit true. Mary pulled back as though she’d been physically struck. Her friends covered their gaping mouths, holding back laughter that they could not help. Georgiana raised a brow. “Cruelty lacks pleasure when it’s directed at you, doesn’t it?”

  Mary’s anger came sharp and unpleasant. And expected. “I don’t care how large your dowry is. No one will have you. Not knowing what you really are.”

  “And what is that?” Georgiana asked, laying her trap. Willing the girl into it.

  “Cheap. A trollop,” Mary said, cruelly. “Mother to a bastard who will likely grow into a trollop.”

  Georgiana had expected the first, but not the last. Her blood ran hot. She stepped into the golden light spilling from the ballroom, her words quiet. “What did you say?”

  There was silence on the balcony. The other girls heard the warning in the words. Murmured their concern. Mary took a step back, but was too proud to retreat. “You heard me.”

  Georgiana advanced, pressing the girl from the light. Into darkness. Where she reigned. “Say it again.”

  “I—”

  “Say it again,” Georgiana repeated.

  Mary closed her eyes tightly. Whispered the words. “You’re cheap.”

  “And you’re a coward,” Georgiana hissed. “Like your father and his father before him.”

  The girl’s eyes shot open. “I did not mean . . .”

  “You did,” Georgiana said quietly. “And I might have forgiven you for what you called me. But then you brought my daughter into it.”

  “I apologize.”

  Too late. Georgiana shook her head. Leaned in. Whispered her promise. “When your entire world comes crashing down around you, it will be because of this moment.”

  “I am sorry!” Mary cried, hearing the truth in the words. As well she should. Chase did not make promises she did not keep.

  Except she was not Chase tonight. She was Georgiana.

  Christ.

  Georgiana had to back away from the moment. Mask her anger before she revealed too much. She stepped away from Mary and laughed, loud and light, a sound she’d perfected on the floor of her club. “You lack the courage of your convictions, Lady Mary. So easily frightened!”

  The other girls laughed, and poor Mary came unhinged, disliking the way she’d been so thoroughly toppled from her position. “You’ll never be worthy of us! You’re a whore!”

  Her friends gasped collectively, and silence fell on the balcony. “Mary!” one of them whispered after a long moment, voicing their mutual shock and disapproval at the words.

  Mary was wild-eyed, desperate to resume her place at the top of the social pyramid. “She started it!”

  There was a long pause before Sophie said, “Actually, we started it.”

  “Oh, be quiet, Sophie!” Mary cried before turning and running into the ballroom. Alone.

  Georgiana should have been happy with the scene. Mary had gone too far and learned the most important lesson of Society—that f
riends would stay with you only as long as they weren’t marred by your tarnish.

  But Georgiana wasn’t happy.

  As Chase, she prided herself on her control. On her stillness. On her thoughtful action.

  Where the hell was Chase tonight?

  How was it that these people held such sway over her—over her emotions—even now? Even as she wielded such deft power over them in another parallel life?

  You’re a whore.

  The words lingered in the darkness, reminding her of the past. Of Caroline’s future if Georgiana did not make this world accept her.

  The girls held sway because she allowed it. Because she had no choice but to allow it. It was their field, and the game was to make her feel small and insignificant.

  She hated them for playing so well.

  She turned on the remaining women. “Surely you all have someone waiting for the next dance?”

  They dispersed without hesitation—all but one. Georgiana narrowed her gaze on the girl. “What’s your name?”

  She did not look away, and Georgiana was impressed. “Sophie.”

  “I know that bit.”

  “Sophie Talbot.”

  She did not use the “Lady” she was due. “Your father is the Earl of Wight?”

  The girl nodded. “Yes.”

  It was virtually a purchased title—Wight was exceedingly wealthy after making a number of impressive investments in the Orient, and the former King had offered him a title that few believed was warranted. Sophie had an older sister who was a newly minted duchess, which was no doubt why she’d been accepted into this little coven.

  “You go, as well, Sophie, before I decide that you’re not the one I like, after all.”

  Sophie’s mouth opened, and then closed when she decided not to speak. Instead, she spun on her heel and returned to the ball. Smart girl.

  Georgiana let out a long breath when she was once again alone, hating its tremor, the way it sounded of regret. Of sorrow.

  Of weakness.

  She gave silent thanks that she was alone, with no one to witness the moment.

  Except she wasn’t alone.

  “That won’t have helped your cause.”

  The words came dark and quiet from the shadows, and Georgiana whirled around to face the man who had spoken them. Tension threaded through her as she peered into the darkness.

  Before she could ask him to show himself, he stepped forward, his hair gleaming silver in the moonlight. The shadows underscored the sharp angles of his face—jaw, cheek, brow, long straight nose. She inhaled sharply as frustration gave way to recognition . . . then relief, and more excitement than she’d like to admit.

  Duncan West. Handsome and perfectly turned out in a black topcoat and trousers with a crisp linen cravat that gleamed white against his skin, the simplicity of the formal attire making him somehow more compelling than usual.

  And Duncan West was not a man who needed to be more compelling than usual. He was brilliant and powerful and handsome as sin, but with intelligence and influence and beauty came danger. Didn’t she know that better than anyone?

  Hadn’t she built a life upon it?

  West was the owner of five of London’s most-read publications: one daily, meticulously ironed by butlers across the city; two weeklies, delivered by post to homes throughout Britain; a ladies’ magazine; and a gossip rag that was the joy of the untitled and the secret, shameful subscription of the aristocracy.

  And, besides all that, he was also the nearly fifth partner in The Fallen Angel—the journalist who built a name and a fortune on the scandal, secrets, and information he received from Chase.

  Of course, he did not know that Chase stood before him now—not the terrifying, mysterious gentleman all of London believed him to be, but a woman. Young, scandalous, and with more power than any woman had the right to claim.

  That ignorance was why, no doubt, West had allowed his gossip pages to run the horrendous cartoon, painting Georgiana both Godiva and Mary, virgin and whore, sin and salvation, all in service to the newspaperman’s bankroll.

  His papers—he—had forced her hand. He was the reason she stood here tonight, feathered and preened and perfect, in search of her social second chance. And she did not care for that—no matter how handsome he was.

  Perhaps she cared for it less because of how handsome he was. “Sir,” she said, affecting her best admonition. “We have not been introduced. And you should not be lurking in the dark.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, and she heard the teasing in his voice. Was tempted by it. “The dark is the very best place to lurk.”

  “Not if you care for your reputation,” she said, unable to resist the wry words.

  “My reputation is not in danger.”

  “Oh, neither is mine,” she replied.

  His brows rose in surprise. “No?”

  “No. The only thing that can possibly happen to my reputation is that it become better. You heard what Lady Mary called me.”

  “I think half of London heard what she called you,” he said, coming closer. “She’s improper.”

  She tilted her head. “But not incorrect?”

  Surprise flared in his eyes, and she found she liked it. He was not a man who was easily surprised. “Incorrect is a given.”

  She liked the words, too. Their certainty sent a little thread of excitement through her. And she could not afford excitement. She returned the conversation to safety. “No doubt our contretemps will be in the papers tomorrow,” she said, letting accusation into the words.

  “I see my reputation precedes me.”

  “Should mine be the only one?”

  He shifted uncomfortably, and she took a modicum of pleasure in the movement. He should be uncomfortable with her. As far as he knew, she was a girl. Ruined young, yes, but did not youthful scandal somehow make for the most innocent of girls?

  It did not matter that she was no kind of innocent, or that they had known each other for years. Worked together. Exchanged missives, she under the guise of all-powerful Chase, flirted with each other, she under the guise of Anna, the queen of London’s lightskirts.

  But Duncan West was not acquainted with the part she played tonight. He did not know Georgiana, even though it was he who had flushed her out into society. He, and his cartoon.

  “Of course I know the man who ran the cartoon that made me infamous.”

  She recognized guilt in his gaze. “I am sorry.”

  She raised a brow. “Do you apologize to all the recipients of your particular brand of humor? Or only to those whom you cannot avoid?”

  “I deserved that.”

  “And more,” she said, knowing that she was on the edge of going too far.

  He nodded. “And more. But you did not deserve the cartoon.”

  “And you’ve only tonight had a change of heart?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve regretted it since it ran. It was in poor taste.”

  “No need to explain. Business is business.” She knew that well. Had lived by the words for years. It was part of why Chase and West worked so well together. Neither asked questions of the other as long as information flowed smoothly between them.

  But it did not mean she forgave him for what he’d done. For requiring her to be present this night, to find marriage, to be accepted. Without him . . . she might have had more time.

  Not much time.

  She ignored the thought.

  “Children are not business,” he said. “She shouldn’t have been a part of it.”

  She did not like the turn in the conversation, the way he referred to Caroline, gently, as though he cared. She did not like the idea that he cared. She looked away.

  He sensed the shift in her. Changed the topic. “How did you know me?”

  “When we arrived, my brother pointed out the lions in the room.” The lie came easily.

  He tilted his head. “Those who are regal and important?”

  “Those who are lazy and dangerous.�
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  He laughed low and deep, the sound rippling through her. She did not like that, either, the way he seemed to catch her off guard even as she was at her most guarded. “I may be dangerous, Lady Georgiana, but I have never in my life been lazy.”

  And then she wasn’t off guard at all, but rather exceedingly comfortable. Tempted. He could not have meant the words to be so tempting, but damned if they weren’t . . . damned if they didn’t make her want to flirt shamelessly with him and ask him to prove just how hard he would work for a reward. Damned if he didn’t have the same effect on her that he did in her club, when she was disguised and he was diverting.

  Damned if he didn’t make her wonder what it might be like to meet him in the darkness, another woman at another time in another place. To give in to temptation.

  For the first time. Since the last time.

  Since the only time.

  She stiffened at the thought. He was a very dangerous man, and she was not Chase tonight. This was not her club. She had no power here.

  He did, however.

  She looked toward the glittering ballroom. “I should return to the festivities. And my chaperones.”

  “Which are legion, no doubt.”

  “I’ve a sister-in-law with sisters-in-law. There is nothing a gaggle of women enjoys more than adorning the unmarried.”

  He smiled at the word. “Adorned is right.” His gaze flickered to the feathers protruding from her coif. She resisted the urge to rip them out. She’d agreed to the damn things as a trade—she wore them, and in return was allowed to arrive at and leave the ball in her own conveyance.

  She scowled. “Don’t look at them.” He returned his attention to her eyes, and she recognized the humor dancing in his brown gaze. “And don’t laugh. You try dressing for a ball with three ladies and their maids fawning about.”

  His lips twitched. “I take it you do not enjoy fashion.”

  She swatted at an errant feather that had fallen into her field of vision, as though she’d summoned it with her vitriol. “Whatever gave you such an idea?”