Page 2 of My Kind of Scoundel
“Miss Darrow merely came to her client’s aid,” Naomi said, showing her unwavering support for womanhood. “Surely the days spent nursing you are reparation enough. Besides, everything worked out perfectly in the end. Were it not for Miss Darrow’s intervention, Delphine would never have met her husband.”
Seeing Delphine happy and in love was indeed a blessing.
“Nothing pleases me more than knowing Delphine is content.” Theo rubbed his wounded shoulder and winced. Perhaps he should be grateful he’d gained a scar. It did add a certain ruggedness to his physique. “But being shot makes me look weak. Every coxcomb drunk on arak will think he has the strength to pummel me now.”
Aramis found the notion amusing. “You could do with honing your pugilistic skills. Admit nothing brings you greater pleasure than thrashing a few arrogant lords. Wecould put you in the fighting pit and take bets on the outcome.”
It was no laughing matter. Another attack was imminent. He could feel it in his blood. This time, he would be prepared.
“I shall consider fighting in the pit once I’ve won our current wager.” Theo met his brother’s gaze, and they both grinned.
Their latest bet involved Miss Darrow.
Miss Darrow had helped nurse him back to health as part of her penance. She’d closed her shop and spent hours at his bedside while he recuperated at Mile End—now his sister’s marital home. Yet he’d often wondered if the modiste had another reason for wanting to leave town. Throughout her vigil, she was never without her mysterious wooden box.
You hug that sewing box like it’s a beloved pet.
These threads are expensive.
Who in their right mind would steal haberdashery?
You’d be surprised.
One might ask why a simple sewing box came with a small gold key. Or why the modiste wore it on a red ribbon fastened around her neck. When feigning sleep, he was certain Miss Darrow had retrieved something from her bodice and buried it beneath the threads.
It was a puzzle he longed to unravel.
So, in an act of retribution, he stole the box and hid it in his bedchamber at Fortune’s Den. The longer he kept it, the closer he came to winning the wager.
Not that he cared about the prize. Toying with Miss Darrow was part of his recuperation. A means to heal his wounded pride. Indeed, he would make sure the modiste never lied to him again.
“What made you think your uncle would attend the theatre tonight?” Naomi glanced into the auditorium. The crowd’s laughter proved contagious, and she chuckled, too. “Would he not have arrived in time for the performance?”
“The aristocracy likes to make a statement,” Aramis said, settling his wife’s gloved hand on his thigh. “They come to be seen, not to watch Madame Vestris and her amusing burlesques.”
Excitement coursed through Theo’s veins. He lived to wipe the smile off Berridge’s face. “And when he finds us in his private box, this horde will watch the pompous Earl of Berridge reduced to a laughingstock.”
Berridge had been goading the men at White’s to make bets as to which one of Theo’s brothers would die first. It didn’t matter that Theo had been hit with the lead ball. The fact a fool had found the courage to fire weakened his family’s defences.
They did not have to wait long for the battle to begin.
Yet it was not the pathetic Earl of Berridge who barged into the theatre box, eager to cause a scene. It was the devious Miss Darrow.
“Good evening, Mr Chance.” Swathed in a pink satin cloak, the lady projected an air of confidence while pinning Theo to his seat with her intense green gaze. “You’re a hard man to find.”
Damnation!
How the devil had she known he was at the theatre?
“Missing me already, Miss Darrow?” He cursed inwardly, vexed by the prospect of being publicly berated by a shrew. “I should think you’ve seen enough of me to last a lifetime.”
As part of her nursing duties, she had changed hisbandages and mopped his brow. He’d drawn the line at a bed bath. He’d not give the woman the satisfaction of knowing her touch roused a cockstand.
The lady whipped back her hood, revealing waves of lustrous red hair—the mark of a vixen. “I prefer your temper to your teasing, sir. You know why I’m here. After all I have done for you, I demand you stop treating me like a fool.”
Miss Darrow had the devil’s cheek. She had kept him talking in the shop, offering her little witticisms while Delphine conducted an illicit encounter in the yard. Doubtless she giggled at his naivety every time she escaped to the fitting room.
Arching a brow, he attempted to look bewildered. “Forgive me if I have given you the wrong impression.” He turned to Aramis, keen to make this woman pay for every wicked lie she’d told. “Nurses often become infatuated with their patients. It’s a common malady. As you can see, poor Miss Darrow is desperate for my attention.”
