All's Fair in Love and Scandal Page 3

  However, a wager, once placed, could not be abandoned. The less likely he was to win it, the more determined Douglas was to go down fighting. As of now, he knew almost nothing about Madeline Wilde or the pamphlet Spence claimed she wrote. Two thousand pounds—or the fifteen hundred that would be his share of the winnings—was a considerable prize, but aside from that, he was curious about the beautiful Mrs. Wilde. Fortunately he knew exactly who could tell him more, and now that she was married, he wouldn’t even have to feel guilty about asking her. He went to Hanover Square and rang the bell of a house with scaffolding still covering the front of it.

  “How goes it, sister?” he greeted the mistress of the house when he was shown into the drawing room.

  “Very well, thank you.” Joan, Lady Burke, eyed him curiously. She must be shocked to see him calling on her. “And you?”

  “Well enough.”

  “What brings you here?”

  He thought of all the things he could say to torment her. He could tell her he’d heard a particularly intriguing rumor, and then refuse to say what it was. He could put on an act of indignation that she’d married his best mate and left him to the mercies of blokes like Spence. At least Tristan Burke had never set him up to look like a fool—not deliberately, at any rate. Douglas certainly felt like one when he received his father’s terse note, summoning him posthaste back to London for Burke’s wedding to Joan.

  He decided on a direct frontal assault. Joan talked too much when she was flustered, and he wanted to know everything. “Have you ever heard of 50 Ways to Sin?”

  His sister froze, her eyes wide. “What?”

  “Fifty Ways to Sin,” he repeated.

  “No!”

  Slowly Douglas grinned. She’d said it too quickly and too loudly. And as he watched her, Joan blushed bright pink. She did that when she lied.

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” She snatched up her teacup and took a long sip.

  “Oh really? Come, Joan,” he wheedled. “I’ll find out anyway. You might as well tell me.”

  “If you’ll find out anyway, there’s no need for you to badger me about it.”

  “You should be flattered! I’ve come to you first, trusting in your intelligence and discretion.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Douglas kept his grin in place but inwardly he cursed; he’d gone too far. “You’ve never said anything half so nice to me,” she accused. “Why do you want to know about that silly story so badly?”

  “What kind of story is it?”

  She blushed again. “They’re rubbish. Not that I read them.”

  “More than one story, then.”

  Joan shot him a filthy glare. “Go away, Douglas. I need to supervise the packing. Tristan wants to visit Wildwood and we’re leaving in a few days.”

  “As you wish,” he said easily. “Is he in?”

  His sister had started to rise, but sat back down at his question. “Why?”

  He raised one shoulder. “Perhaps he knows what it is. Burke will tell me, as one gentleman to another.”

  She seemed to do some rapid thinking. “No, he won’t.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Douglas grinned again. “These stories grow more and more intriguing.”

  Joan recovered herself. She smiled back at him. “Buy one and see for yourself.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  Her smirk grew. “Do that.”

  He cleared his throat, realizing he’d boxed himself into a corner. “Where might I obtain one?”

  She burst into laughter. “How did you hear about them, yet learn absolutely nothing about them?”

  “I heard it mentioned in passing.”

  “Oh? By whom?” Now she was interested. Joan loved a good gossip. That was why he’d come to her, after all.

  Douglas hesitated. A man’s wagers were private, and this one could hardly be discussed with a lady, let alone one’s sister. “Some bloke at a ball.”

  “A man?” Joan blinked. “What did he say?”

  Curse Spence; he hadn’t said anything at all. “He said I might find it interesting. Given the title, he might be right.” Douglas wiggled his eyebrows. “Please tell me they are tales of debauchery and every sort of wickedness.”

  Instead of snorting with laughter as expected, his sister blushed again. “Run out of ideas for your evening entertainments, have you?”

  He stared. “They are? You’re not teasing me, are you, Joan?” This wager might have become doubly fascinating.

  “I haven’t said a word!” But her face was ruby red.

  Before Douglas could assure her that she’d revealed a great deal, if not in words, his brother-in-law chose that moment to appear. Tristan, Lord Burke, stopped in the doorway with his usual cocky expression. “Bennet! How odd to see you in daylight.”

  “He was just going,” said Joan in a rush. “Weren’t you, Douglas? I think Mother might be planning to stop in for tea today . . .”

  “A pleasure to see you, Burke,” said Douglas, ignoring his sister. “I thought it was time to see if my sister’s driven you mad yet.”

  Burke’s eyes slid to Joan, who blushed again. He sat down beside his wife, draping his arms over the back of the settee. “What do you really want?”

  “I came for tea,” he protested. Burke just gave him a look indicating he didn’t believe that for one moment. Douglas bit back a curse; Burke knew him too well. “And for gossip.” He flashed a winning smile. “Naturally I thought of my dear sister, who has a fondness for such things. I was asking her if she knew about a story called 50 Ways to Sin.”

  Joan made a noise like a mouse who’d just been trod on. Burke looked startled, then put back his head and laughed. “You came to ask your sister about that? Are you mad?”

  “Why? What is it?”

  Burke laughed again. Douglas began to feel annoyed, but before he could speak, Joan did. “It’s a bunch of naughty stories,” she said rapidly, “by a very loose woman called Lady Constance. She writes about her lovers and the wicked things they do together. Why on earth do you want to know about them?”

  Naughty stories? About the authoress’s lovers? Douglas scowled at Burke, who grinned back. “Lady Constance who?” he snapped.

  Joan’s face was still scarlet. “No one knows. A lady of the ton, though; she writes of events that really happened.”

  “Don’t say you’ve been featured in one of them,” her husband added slyly.

  Burke was a devil, Douglas thought darkly. He’d enjoyed that facet of his friend’s personality more when they were both bachelors. “I don’t even know what they are. How could I know if I’d been—?” He stopped as the words sank in. Joan gave a choking sob and buried her face in her hands. “Do you mean featured, as one of the lady’s lovers?”

  “She cuts quite a swath through society, taking home all sorts of fellows to spend the night in sin.” Burke winked. “Sound familiar?”

  Joan’s shoulders were shaking. Douglas ignored her and glared at Burke. His friend was taking far too much delight in his discomfort. Not that Douglas wouldn’t have done the same thing if their positions had been reversed, but he wouldn’t have been so openly gleeful about it. Of course Douglas wouldn’t have asked his sister if he’d known 50 Ways to Sin was . . . that. It could have been a biblical tract for all he knew. But Burke obviously knew and wasn’t being the slightest bit discreet about his knowledge, not even with a woman present. The least he could do was answer questions in a straightforward manner, and remember that it was Douglas’s sister listening to this, not some trollop.

  Douglas chose not to think about said sister’s obvious familiarity with the licentious story. No doubt marriage to Burke had corrupted her. “Surely not.” He cleared his throat, grasping for a change of subject. “Enough of that. I did have another, more innocent question. I met an intrigui
ng woman last night.”

  “In which tavern?” drawled Burke, the rotter.

  “At the Creighton ball.”

  “Who?” Joan recovered from her fit enough to uncover her face, although her cheeks were still as red as cherries.

  “Madeline Wilde.”

  Burke shrugged. Joan gaped. “She spoke to you?”

  “Yes,” he said, a bit testily. This visit was not going at all as he had expected, or hoped. “Is that a miracle?”

  “Nearly,” his sister exclaimed. “She’s aloof. Very fashionable, of course—she wore a brilliant gown to the opera last month.” An expression of envious rapture settled over her face. “It was simply perfection, with fringed silk trim and rosettes—”

  “Who is she?” Douglas knew from experience that his mother and sister could go on for hours about someone’s gown and hair and shoes. All he remembered was the way that green silk had draped around Mrs. Wilde’s bosom, and how the skirt swayed when she walked. He appreciated her fashion, but not in ways he wanted to discuss with his sister.

  Joan looked piqued, but abandoned her praise of Mrs. Wilde’s garments. “I don’t know much. She’s only just respectable. Well, perhaps that’s not fair; really it was her mother who was scandalous—Adele Dantes. French, of course. Her husband, Henri Dantes, was a rakehell of truly epic proportions. I daresay he outdid both of you,” she added with a coy glance at her husband, who merely winked at her. “But one day he was able to pay off all his debts and no one ever knew how. He gambled and spent just as much as ever until one night he simply fell dead in his tracks of a seizure or some such thing.”

  “What’s the scandal in that?”

  “Rumor is that the Duke of Canton paid his debts in exchange for access to Madame Dantes’s bed, and that Mrs. Wilde is Canton’s natural daughter. I heard one whisper wondering if the duke—or even Madame Dantes herself—might have helped Dantes into his grave. Heaven knows Madame’s fortunes improved by staggering bounds after her husband died, even though she never married again. And she’s always in the duke’s box at the theater.” Joan folded her hands primly. “Not that anyone knows anything for certain, of course.”

  So that’s why Spence had called her a courtesan’s daughter. “But Mrs. Wilde herself?” he prompted.

  “Oh! I don’t know much about her. She married respectably enough, to one of the Earl of Carrington’s younger sons, but has kept to herself since he died. She’s invited everywhere, yet never dances. She seems to know everyone without being friends with anyone. No one ever sees her with a gentleman, except at balls or parties where some men seem to amuse themselves by wagering on who might persuade her to dance.” Joan’s expression indicated she thought this was his predicament. Douglas didn’t move a muscle, not wanting to betray himself that easily. “Mother will have an apoplexy if you chase after her, you know.”

  He grinned. “Who said I’d have to chase her?”

  “Don’t be crude,” said his sister.

  “Just being truthful, sister dear.” He got to his feet. “Thank you for the intelligence. I give my word to be discreet in whatever I decide to do with it.” He bowed. At the door he paused. “Where might I find one of those stories? I gather Hatchard’s isn’t the most likely place.”

  Burke exchanged a look with Joan that made her blush again. “A dusty little bookshop in Madox Street might have it.”

  For a moment Douglas wondered if he ought to say something to Burke, then decided he didn’t actually want to know what went on between his sister and his friend when they were alone. He gave his head a sharp shake to dislodge the thought, and took his leave.

  As he made his way to Madox Street, more curious than ever about this mysterious publication, he racked his brains. The Earl of Carrington’s son . . . which one could she have married? There were three or four sons there, and after a while he decided it must have been Arthur, the youngest. Douglas had been at Eton with Arthur Wilde, although they’d run in very different circles. Arthur was studious and reserved, a decent chap. Douglas felt a flicker of sorrow for the man. Who wouldn’t pity a man who left behind such a wife?

  He found the little bookshop without trouble. A bell tinkled as he pushed open the door, and a plump proprietor looked up. “Good day, sir,” he said, every syllable well-oiled. “May I help you?”

  A quick glance around showed the shop was deserted. “I’m looking for a story called 50 Ways to Sin.”

  “I may have an issue or two left—not many, mind you. If you’ll pardon me, I’ll have a look.”

  Douglas leaned against the counter as the man disappeared into the back room of the store. Despite Joan’s blushes and Burke’s sly expression, he found it hard to believe this story would live up to its reputation. How salacious could it be, after all, if Burke let Joan read it? His sister was a well-bred young lady, and Douglas knew his mother had raised her as respectably as possible. Not that it kept Joan from having a streak of independence and daring, but when he thought of the prurient books he’d read, there was no chance this Lady Constance’s stories could compare. The poems of the Earl of Rochester had been great favorites among all his mates at university. He amused himself by imagining the swoons and shock Rochester’s poetry would cause among the ladies like his sister, and then tried to guess what Lady Constance could write that would make Joan blush so violently. Stolen kisses in a dark garden, most likely, or perhaps some fanciful tale of being kidnapped by a masked highwayman, who would naturally turn out to be a handsome, otherwise honorable gentleman fallen on hard times. If Douglas knew anything about his sister, he knew she liked romance and adventure.

  Which only made him wonder again how she’d ended up with Burke, and what the blazes Burke had done to end up with her. Someday he’d force someone to explain that to him.

  The shopkeeper came out again, a flat package in his hand. “I apologize for the delay, sir; it had slipped under the shelf. But here it is, and lucky you are to have it. ’Tis my very last copy.”

  Douglas handed over his coin. “Hard to come by, are they?”

  “Quite!” The man chuckled. “Nigh impossible! It’s been a fortnight since that one was published, and there’s been nary a new issue in sight. I could have sold twice as many.”

  “Is that so?” Douglas took the package and studied it curiously. “How many did you sell?”

  “A great many,” said the shopkeeper happily. “It’s been very good for business, sir, very good.”

  “Hmm.” He slipped the package into his pocket. “Good day.”

  As soon as he reached his house in Half Moon Street, he tore off the paper. He was still certain it was some overwrought nonsense that appealed to romantic girls, but damn it, he was curious. Someone had offered a bounty for the authoress’s name. It made his sister blush fiery red. And it was making that shopkeeper in Madox Street rich. What the devil was this story? Douglas pushed open the door to his sitting room, propped one shoulder against the window frame as he opened the plain, prudish cover, and began to read.

  By the end of the first page his eyebrows started to rise.

  By the end of the second, his mouth was hanging open.

  And when he reached the last page, he no longer cared about Spence’s wager or the bounty on Lady Constance’s head or what Burke was thinking to let Joan read this. If Madeline Wilde had written this—even if every word sprang solely out of her imagination and not from her experience—he wanted to get to know her much, much better.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Madeline was mildly surprised to see Mr. Bennet head her way two nights after their first meeting. She was a little irritated; a man of his size and looks drew attention, which was the last thing she wanted. He had his eyes fixed on her the whole time, as if he didn’t care who knew he was seeking her out, which was also annoying since it made everyone who had turned to watch him swivel around to look at her. She kept her fain
t smile in place, knowing there’d be another rush of rumors about the two of them before dawn tomorrow. Mr. Bennet was proving difficult to put in his place.

  Still, as he drew nearer, the crowd now parting in front of him as if to give her a good look, a little jolt of something else shot through her. Not irritation, not annoyance, not surprise. She supposed she wouldn’t be a woman if she didn’t get a shock of . . . awareness. That was it, awareness, not interest or even worse, attraction. He had adopted the strictest fashion and wore all black except for his waistcoat and cravat, and the effect was quite devastating. It highlighted how very trim and athletic his figure was, broad shouldered and fit. He’d combed his thick auburn hair back from his face, banishing the mussed romantic appearance of the last time she’d seen him. And his hazel eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that ought to have irked her but somehow, instead, made her heart skip a beat.

  “Mrs. Wilde.” He bowed when he reached her.

  “Good evening, sir. What have you wagered this evening?”

  “Nothing,” he said easily. He plucked two glasses from a footman’s tray and handed her one. “As you guessed when first we met, I lost last time, and I hate losing. Tonight I’ve only come for my own pleasure.”

  She arched one brow. “With no thought to mine?”

  “No, I thought a great deal about your pleasure as well.” His eyes warmed, but he didn’t steal a glance at her bosom, as so many men did. He seemed fascinated by her face. “About our mutual pleasure.”

  Madeline took a sip of champagne to hide her flinch. She was fairly disgusted with herself for letting him have any effect on her, let alone such an overtly physical one. “Perhaps my pleasure does not involve you at all. Perhaps my pleasure is for you to go away and leave me in peace.”

  “So you can stand here and watch in solitude?” He shook his head and propped one shoulder against the pillar beside her. “Where’s the pleasure in that?”

  She didn’t attend balls for pleasure. She attended to hear the latest gossip and the freshest scandals, which were vital to her work for Liam. If she danced and drank, she’d never keep the rumors straight, and besides, a reputation for aloofness seemed to lead to more invitations, not fewer. Tonight she barely knew the host and hostess. Madeline supposed she was invited because she was an enigma: a fashionable woman with connections, but also with a whiff of scandal clinging to her. An independent woman who lived a comfortable life with no apparent means of support. There were never enough wealthy widows to satisfy the penniless rakes and rogues who prowled the drawing rooms of Mayfair in pursuit of fresh prey.