Page 4 of Tempting the Scoundrel
Husband,bah.Alexandra tore into her buttered toast. That was too kind a word. Nick was a plague. A grotesque, warty plague. Something that ended in misery and death. After the warts.
The resigned sigh from the other end of the table drew Alexandra’s attention. “What?” she asked, defensive now.
Richard stared at Alexandra patiently. She could practically read his thoughts.She’s spending too much time alone. She’s a mess. Her hair looks like a bird has burrowed in it. I can’t believe she married a criminal from Bethnal Green four years ago and the only person who knew was our cad of a father.
If the previous Earl of Kent hadn’t unexpectedly died in the middle of the soup course over three years ago, Alexandra would have considered parricide. This entire stupid mess was his fault.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Alexandra told her brother. “It’s onlyThe Times. You don’t even enjoy reading it.”
“No,” Richard admitted, drinking his coffee. “I’m not expecting any notable insight from a Tory newspaper. But I do require some knowledge of their views.”
“Yes, well, their current view is that I’m a reflection of the continued degradation of traditional values. They question my sanity and have suggested that once James returns from his honeymoon he ought to consider having me sent to an asylum. There. What else shall I tell you from this lovely Tory newspaper?”
Richard sighed. “Alexandra.”
“What?” When her brother only raised an eyebrow at her, she made a face. “I told you not to look at me like that.”
“Like what?” He shrugged and poured himself some coffee. “I’m not looking at you any particular way.”
“I’mfine.”
“This is the sixth broadsheet I’ve managed to save from you. The other twelve are, sadly, ashes in the fireplace. Now let me look at this without your input.” He shuffled through the pages until he found the one that caused her ire. “Ah.”
At that precise moment, Richard’s wife, Anne, strolled into the room, humming a soft ditty. “Oh, is thatThe Times? May I see that?” Without waiting for Richard’s response, Anne plucked the paper out of his hands and stared down at the page. “Ah,” she said softly.
“Ah? Why does everyone sayah?” Alexandra grumbled, setting down her knife with a clatter. “It’s a silly illustration drawn by a man of middling talent.”
Anne pressed her lips together and settled in her chair. “The drawing is . . .” She looked to Richard, as if for help.
“Interesting,” he finished, hiding his wince behind his teacup. “The horns, particularly. It’s very, erm, animated.”
“It means nothing,” Anne smoothed over, eyeing her husband. “They depicted me as a crying mess outside the courthouse. The illustrations are always unflattering.”
Anne’s father, the prime minister, had confessed to covering up the crimes of a key ally in parliament—and Anne’s former fiancé. Anne and Richard exposed both men’s crimes, causing an ongoing parliamentary upheaval.
Prime Minister Sheffield leaked Alexandra’s secret marriage to the dailies in the hope of destroying the Grey family name. It had almost worked. In the following months, articles painted Anne as responsible for the political chaos. Richard paid and intimidated columnists to print articles depicting the truth: that Anne had come forward against her father at great personal risk.
Richard was rewarded for his efforts. He and Anne received piles of invitations to every house party, event, and ball in Britain. It seemed everyone was dying to know how Anne had fared living in her father’s brutal home.
While Richard had been able to rehabilitate his wife’s image in the public eye, he couldn’t do the same for his sister. Not without revealing that their own father orchestrated her disastrous union.
“Evencharitiesare turning me away because they don’t wish to be the subject of malicious gossip,” Alexandra muttered.
“Oh,” Anne said with a grimace.
“They were perfectly nice about it when they shut their door in my face, at least.”
“Good god, you need to get out of London,” Richard said immediately. He went to the sideboard to gather his wife some breakfast. “Anne and I have an invitation to the Churchill house party in Yorkshire. Say the word and we’ll take you along.”
“I can’t.”
Anne took the plate from Richard. “Why not? I hear Yorkshire is lovely in autumn.”
“I have work,” Alexandra reminded them. “All my sources are here. I’m in the middle of a manuscript.” One that would create more scandal if it came out, but they didn’t need to know that.
“Fortunately for you,” Richard said, “the Churchill house party is a mere fortnight. I’m certain your work will survive the hiatus.”
Alexandra sighed. “Very well, I won’t mince words: Lady Churchill hates me. I once called her husband a bloviating imbecile.” At Richard’s raised eyebrow, she said, “He told me that women didn’t have the knowledge or depth of thought to understand political matters. It doesn’t help that their cousins, the Astleys, run factories I have criticized over a lack of safety for workers, and—”Anne and Richard gave each other a considering look, which Alexandra intercepted. “I see the both of you thinking at each other, in the obscene way people in love do. Spit it out.”
