Page 18 of A Lady's Lesson in Scandal
Major General Beaufort Drake was England’s biggest fool.
He stood on the gravelled entrance leading from his drive to the massive stone steps of his country estate and watched the carriage carrying his fiancée trundle ever closer down the alder-lined drive. The frigid wind whistled through the courtyard, embracing him with cold fingers.
‘Well, on the bright side of things, this wedding celebration is an excellent reason to invite our biggest suspect into your home.’ Reynard elbowed Drake in the side as he stood with him, waiting for Millicent to arrive.
Drake rolled his eyes and pressed his lips together. Not only had he allowed a fiery-haired witch of a woman to trick him into a marriage, but he then let Prime Minister Russell convince him to turn the whole sordid affair into a trap for a killer. It was madness. And it just might work.
‘I had no idea a “small wedding” meant inviting every duke, earl, viscount, and baron within throwing distance of London to descend upon us.’ Drake rocked back on his heels, willing his anger to dissipate. It wasn’t Millicent’s fault her sadistic stepmother wanted a huge affair. ‘Thank God Killian is still onhis honeymoon.’ Seeing his smug face would be too much to bear. This entire farce of a wedding guaranteed to fray Drake’s nerves and test his very short fuse without any help from his snarky friend.
‘Of us all, you were the last I expected to fall.’ Reynard clapped Drake on the back. ‘Even the best of us get caught out sometimes, eh?’
‘Especially when a scheming minx has you in her sights,’ Drake grumbled.
‘Quite a coincidence that our next suspect is a childhood friend of your betrothed.’ Reynard squinted up at the winter sky before returning his gaze to the carriage rolling closer along the winding drive.
‘Lord Franklin St George.’ Drake felt his face pull into a grimace. Prime Minister Russell’s orders were explicit. Focus on St George and determine what role he played in this diabolical game. ‘I spent some time with him a few months back at Bradford’s house party. Even if he’s innocent of this, the man is despicable.’ Loathing for St George added another layer of bitterness fuelling Drake.
St George was a slimy toad who hurled insults at women, couldn’t ride to save his soul, and had a history with Drake’s future wife. The specifics of that history lay shrouded in shadow, but not for long. It was one mystery Drake was intent on discovering. And the key to that particular lock was fast approaching.
‘Do you think he’s capable of luring young country girls to interview for maid positions, drugging them, nailing them into coffins, and then shipping them across the English Channel to France?’ Reynard’s cheek ticked in disgust.
Drake couldn’t imagine Franklin holding a hammer to nail anything, but the rest was possible. ‘I think he’s capable of trying, though I doubt he has the intelligence or power toorchestrate anything alone. This secret society of men calls themselves The Devil’s Sons. I believe St George is a member. If we catch him red-handed, he can lead us to those who are powerful enough to keep this sex trade running. That is our aim.’
The girls who survived the journey across the Channel had no money, no family, no protection. They were forced into prostitution, and the money they earned lined the pockets of snivelling peers of the realm like fucking Franklin St George. But not for long.
‘We’ll keep a close eye on the bastard. See who he talks to. If he reveals anything. One way or another, we’ll catch him.’ Reynard nodded, always confident.
All evidence pointed to St George’s participation in procuring these women. Which meant he knew who was in charge. Drake was going to enjoy making him spill his secrets. He was almost as desperate to catch the fucker red-handed as he was to see his fiancée again. Which troubled Drake in the extreme.
Two weeks had never felt so long. Not even in the stinking Afghanistan pit of a prison he called home for two years. Completely confounding. He didn’t like Millicent Whittenburg. She had trapped him in an unwanted marriage. She was too tall. Too bold. Too fierce.
Too bloody tempting.
His mind kept wandering back to their kiss on the veranda. His body hardened as he imagined all her curves pressed against him, only in his mind, she was naked, and they weren’t interrupted by the entire sodding beau monde.
His cock thickened at the memory of their brief interlude.
Fucking hell!
Drake prided himself on control. His body was a weapon, something he wielded with the same fierce detachment as a sword or pistol. But somehow, just the thought of Millicent created a rebellion within him. He yearned for her.
Major General Drake Beaufort yearns for no one.
Yet, still. He ached.
The anger boiling beneath his skin had a new target. His conniving wife-to-be. A woman who dared to make him feel again. Such an affront to his autonomy was not to be borne. She would pay for her gamble. Whatever she hoped to reap from this marriage, a felicitous union was not forthcoming. He would double down on his efforts to keep her at a distance.
‘Ah. Here they are. Your betrothed and her lovely parents. I must say, having Patricia Whittenburg for a mother-in-law would send most men running for the hills. Myself included.’ Reynard watched the coach with a wary eye. ‘She’s a horror.’
‘On a good day,’ Drake agreed.
A footman rushed to set the step, and Drake strode forward, ready to greet his betrothed with all the hospitality of a wounded dragon. Reynard wisely stayed back to watch from a distance.
Lord Whittenburg emerged first, his coat wrinkled from the journey. He assisted his wife, a woman significantly younger and exponentially crueller than her husband. Lord Whittenburg’s weakness highlighted his wife’s determination. Drake was not a fan of Millicent’s pretty, spiteful, grasping stepmother. His opinion of the woman grew even more severe when Millicent appeared, blinking at the bright day.
It had only been two weeks since their last meeting, but Millicent’s appearance was drastically altered. She had lost weight, her face pale and gaunt. It was also blatantly apparent she was in some kind of discomfort. Although her movements were still fluid and graceful, belying an athleticism most young ladies of the beau monde would be embarrassed to display, she winced as she stepped down from the carriage. But then, ladies were supposed to be delicate, fragile flowers in need of protection. Perhaps his perception of her being different from all the gentle ladies of the beau mondewas faulty.
Hogwash!
