A Scoundrel in the Making (The Marriage Maker Book 9) Read online

  “Not this time.”

  She started toward the stairs. When she’d disappeared, he called, “Russell! I must speak with you at once.”

  “What the devil, Reade?” Russell called.

  The girl gasped. Reade retreated a pace, then kicked the door. Wood splintered and the door slammed back against the wall. He lunged into the room. Russell stood on the other side of the bed near the hearth. The woman kneeling on the bed wasn’t the debutant Reade had expected, but at twenty-two, Miss Daily, was still young enough not to understand the predator she’d trusted. Her sleeve hung off her shoulder and a breast nearly spilled from her bodice.

  He whipped his gaze onto Russell. “You’ve gone too far, this time, Russell.” Reade crossed to the bed and grasped the young lady’s arm.

  “What is happening Douglas?” she said in confusion. “Is this part of the fun?”

  “Fun?” Reade repeated.

  “I see you did not heed my warning about staying away from my private chambers.” Russell yanked the claymore from the wall over the hearth and charged around the bed.

  Reade leapt away from the bed and narrowly avoided a sword slice to his arm.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Reade demanded.

  “No one will blame me for protecting the lady from an intruder.” Russell swung the sword at his midsection.

  Reade leapt back. His heart thundered. Could he outrun the madman without getting sliced by the sword? Eyes locked on Russell, he edged toward the door.

  Russell’s eyes shifted to something behind him. “I knew the two of you hadn’t accidentally stumbled into my room.”

  Reade glanced over his shoulder. Abigail stood in the doorway.

  “By God, Abigail, what are you doing here?” He yanked his gaze back onto Russell. Miss Daily still knelt on the bed. Russell stood between Reade and the bed. “Let Miss Daily go,” Reade said.

  Russell gave a mean laugh. “Miss Daily isn’t going anywhere, are you, my dear?”

  “This isn’t part of our game,” she said.

  “Oh, but it is,” he replied. “The best part. Now be a good girl and yank that bell pull by the bed.”

  She glanced at the bell pull.

  “Now, Brenda,” he ordered.

  She scrambled across the bed and Reade’s blood chilled. Russell was calling for help.

  Reade backed up. “Run, Abigail,” he ordered.

  How far could they get before Russell could catch them? Alone, he might have a slight chance. With Abigail, there was no chance.

  Russell advanced on Reade.

  “Bloody hell, run, Abigail.”

  The scrape of steel against wood sent a chill down Reade’s spine. She wouldn’t—

  Russell neared within sword reach. Reade turned and seized Abigail’s arm. She shoved the hilt of the Sword of State into his hand. He registered the blade—then closed his fingers around the metal and shoved Abigail into the hallway. Reade stumbled two paces after her, spun, and yanked the sword up to meet the downward arc of Russell’s strike. Steel rang in an ear-splitting clang and the force of the blow vibrated down his arm.

  “Abigail, get out. He’s called for help.”

  “The Honors are mine.” Russell jabbed left, then swung to the right.

  Reade parried. The man was a better swordsman than he was a card player.

  “Who sent you?” Russell feinted left, then sliced at Reade’s right arm. Fabric rent and pain stabbed.

  Abigail gasped. Reade jabbed and sliced the side of Russell’s trousers. Boots pounded on the stairway.

  “For God’s sake, Abigail, run!” Reade shouted.

  From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed her dart into Russell’s room. What was she doing? Russell advanced, parried left, right, left, right. He was stalling. Reade needed to press his hand. Reade jabbed at Russell’s belly, then dropped to a squat, jabbed Russell’s leg, above his boot. Russell leapt back, but Reade ripped his breeches, then rolled onto his feet. Blood spotted Russell’s gray breeches. The approaching bootfalls quickened.

  Russell swung his sword in a wide arc. Reade ducked, spun, and brought his sword down on his opponent’s weapon in a jarring blow. Russell stumbled. Reade swung upward, catching Russell’s blade, and yanking it from his grasp. The weapon struck the wall, then hit the floor with a clatter.

  Reade tossed his sword into his left hand, then rammed his right fist into Russell’s face. Russell’s nose spurted blood. Russell reared back, first raised. Female voices rose in Russell’s chambers. Reade grasped his sword with his right hand and pressed the point against Russell’s chest. Russell froze.

  Bootfalls echoed in the hallway, then silenced. Reade edged around Russell, keeping the sword tip pressed against his chest. He caught sight of the brute of a man standing near the stairs, a revolver pointed at him.

  “Shoot him, you fool,” Russell shouted.

  Abigail emerged from Russell’s chambers. The newcomer’s eyes riveted onto her.

  “Throw down your weapon or Bruce will shoot her,” Russell ordered.

  Abigail lifted her right hand. Reade saw the gun she gripped a heartbeat before she fired. The deafening blast echoed off the walls in unison with Bruce’s yowl when the bullet hit his pistol and the weapon flew from his hand. Russell yanked his forearm up, threw off the blade and lunged. Reade sidestepped him and slammed the flat of his sword against Russell’s shoulders. Russell stumbled. Bruce bellowed and charged.

  Reade stuck out his foot. Russell’s boot caught on Reade’s foot and he pitched flat on his face. He shoved to one knee. Reade kicked the side of his head and spun to face the charging man. Bruce flew past Abigail. She swung her revolver and cracked the butt against the side of Bruce’s head. He slumped to the floor, motionless.

  Reade yanked his gaze onto Abigail, breath coming in deep gasps. “Abigail, when we are married, there will be no more of these missions. Are we clear?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “I believe I was quite clear,” he said.

  Mr. Russell groaned. Reade turned and brought his heel down on the back of his head. Russell slumped and didn’t move. “He’ll have a devil of a headache, but he deserves it,” Reade muttered.

  “What did you just say?” Abigail said.

  He looked at her. “Say? About what?”

  “But you are a rake. You have no desire to marry.”

  Voices and footsteps echoed from the hallway. Abigail whirled as half a dozen men emerged from the staircase, Mr. Westland in the lead. They halted. His gaze snapped onto the sword Reade still gripped.

  “What is going on here?” he demanded.

  Abigail said, “What is going on is that Mr. Russell is under arrest.”

  “Under arrest?” Mr. Westland said. “For what?”

  “For stealing the Honors of Scotland.

  Chapter Twelve

  After the constable took Mr. Russell away, Abigail left with Reade and Mr. Westland, headed for Lady Elana’s home, the Honors of Scotland on the seat beside Mr. Westland. The heat that radiated off Reade distracted her, but was preferable to looking into his eyes as she did Mr. Westland’s, for all she could think about was the words “Abigail, when we are married, there will be no more of these missions. Are we clear?” ringing in her head. She knew what he meant, but… Why had he said when we are married?

  “I am sorry that I could not tell you The Raven had sent me in case you encountered any difficulties.” Mr. Westland’s words pulled her back to the conversation.

  She easily discerned his expression in the well-lit coach. He wasn’t the least bit sorry. Why would he be? He was under orders and loved his work. She shouldn’t be surprised The Raven had assigned another operative as backup, but she was. She had completely underestimated the importance of this mission. Not only had she not believed Mr. Russell was the thief, she hadn’t suspected that Mr. Westland was also a spy.

  “I don’t understand,” Reade muttered.

  “I had orders,” Mr. Westland sa
id simply.

  Reade released a breath, but nodded. “I’m just glad this mess is over.”

  Mr. Westland smiled. “The worst is over, at any rate.”

  “What does that mean?” Reade demanded.

  “It means we have yet to debrief with Lady Elana,” Abigail said.

  The clock struck four in the morning when Lady Elana herself opened the door to her home. He eyes fixed on the sword Mr. Westland carried, but she said nothing as she ushered them into the kitchen where Sir Stirling rose from the kitchen table as they entered.

  “I never thought I would have the honor of seeing the Scottish crown jewels,” she said.

  Sir Stirling remained quiet, but Abigail read the same awe on his face as Lady Elana examined the sword, scepter and crown. Once they rewrapped the scepter and crown, they set the regalia on the large work table in the middle of the room, and went to the table where tea sat waiting. Elana and Sir Stirling James sat across from her and Lord Reade sat to her left with Mr. Westland to her right. Lady Elana filled their cups while listening to the story of how they’d found the Honors.

  “How clever of you to have discovered the false back of Mr. Russell’s wardrobe,” Elana said. “I would have searched for a treasure room or secret rooms.”

  Abigail met her gaze. “Not half as clever as you installing Mr. Westland as another operative in the mission.”

  Elana’s expression sobered. “I was not at all certain Mr. Russell was our thief, but with that much money at stake, I knew our thief would be willing to do anything to avoid capture. I have faith in you, Abigail—and that faith was rewarded today—but I would never leave you without someone to help, if help was necessary.”

  “I had Lord Reade,” she said softly.

  The Raven’s eyes sparkled as she smiled at Reade. “Indeed. How I wish I had seen you fight the thief with the Sword of State. That must have been a sight to behold. I do not think anyone has ever used the sword to fight.”

  “It was a singular honor,” he said. “But it wouldn’t have been possible if Lady Buchman hadn’t found the Honors.”

  “You outdid yourself this time, Abigail,” Elana said. “I still cannot believe it. Little more than a day and you exposed the criminal.” She smiled. “Did I not tell you, Stirling, that they would make a wonderful team?”

  “I never doubted you for a moment,” he said.

  Abigail caught the tiny glance Elana sent Sir Stirling’s way. What was that all about?

  “Perhaps you retired too soon, Lady Buchman?” Sir Stirling said. “Our king needs people like you in His service.”

  “Forgive me, Sir Stirling,” Lord Reade said before she would reply, “but Lady Buchman is retired.”

  Sir Stirling’s brows rose. “She was retired, aye. But this recent mission has proven how much she has to give.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Lord Reade said.

  Abigail’s heart pounded.

  “However,” Reade gave Stirling a cool smile, “I have asked Lady Buchman to marry me.”

  Surprise flickered across Sir Stirling’s face, then vanished.

  “How wonderful,” Elana cried. “Abigail, you didn’t say a word.”

  “Wait a moment.” Abigail kept her gaze on Lady Elana. “I do not believe Lord Reade has asked me to marry him.”

  “She is right.” Reade stood, and her stomach did a somersault when he grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. Abigail stood face to face with him. “I have no money to speak of,” he said, then paused. “My brother is in trouble. Creditors…he made the mistake of gambling. But I cannot allow him and his family to lose their home. Once I have paid off his debts, we can marry. I cannot promise exactly when—”

  “How much?” she said.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “How much does your brother owe?”

  Understanding appeared in his gaze. “Abigail, I will not allow—”

  “You will not allow your brother and his family to lose their home. How much?”

  He released a breath and held her gaze. “Twenty thousand pounds.”

  “I assume his properties generate revenue?” she said.

  “Of course, but—”

  “My father set aside fifteen thousand pounds for my dowry. My first husband received the money but, upon his death, I got it back. It is only fair that my second husband receive the same. I will advance the other five thousand pounds. That is, if my future husband does not consider my money his to do with as he pleases.”

  “Abigail—”

  “Does he?” she interrupted.

  Reade kept his gaze locked with hers. “Nae.”

  “Then it is settled.”

  He grasped her hand. “But why?”

  Abigail stared up at him. “For you to work so hard for your family, I assume they are good people.”

  “Very good,” he replied.

  She shrugged. “It is better to have good family to help than to have no family at all.” She arched a brow. “But you must promise to give up cards. I will not live in fear that my second husband will get shot in a gambling hell.”

  “That is an easy promise,” he said. “I despise playing.”

  She frowned. “But you are such a skilled player.”

  “Strange, isn’t it?”

  A nervous flutter of her stomach preceded her next and final demand. “I can live with marrying a scoundrel, but I must insist that you give up your rakish ways.”

  Surprise shone in his eyes. “Abigail, haven’t you realized I’m no real scoundrel.” He stepped closer. “At least with no one but you.”

  She blinked, then understanding dawned. She shifted her gaze to The Raven. “Well done, madam.”

  Lady Elana laughed. “You can thank The Marriage Maker.”

  “The—” Abigail snapped her gaze onto Sir Stirling. “You, sir?”

  He smiled and nodded.

  Reade’s low laugh drew her attention back to him. “It seems we are the victims of an elaborate matchmaking scheme,” he murmured.

  “So it would seem.” Abigail lifted her eyes to his. “Why do you want to marry me—I do not mind if it is for my money.”

  “For your money?” His eyes softened. “I recently learned that a man does not need two years to decide to marry the woman he loves.”

  “Loves—Two years?” she said.

  He pulled her close. “Aye.”

  Before she could ask for an explanation, he kissed her.

  ###

  Take a sneak peek at the next book in the Marriage Maker Goes Undercover collection

  Her Wicked Highland Spy

  The Marriage Maker

  Book Ten

  The Marriage Maker Goes Undercover

  Erin Rye

  Chapter One

  Trapping a Daredevil

  “The man’s impossible.” Lady Elana Gallaway jabbed the letter with a forefinger.

  Sir Stirling James arched a brow.

  Lady Elana, elegance personified, was a raven-haired beauty with a natural grace who held an unparalleled reputation as a woman of great composure, but upon reading the letter, this legendary composure had cracked.

  “Ethan Brodie was one of the best spies in His Majesty’s service.” She rose and placed both palms flat on the surface of her mahogany, leather-topped desk. “A master of arms. Marvelously keen-witted. Unquestionably loyal. He’s so very excellent at serving king and country…” She let her voice trail away, then added in a distinctly sour tone, “But he’s appallingly awful at living a normal life.”

  Stirling permitted himself a smile. “Come now, surely he can’t be the first man to find the Season tedious enough to seek entertainment elsewhere.”

  She pushed the letter across the desk. “Read it. He hasn’t bothered to attend even one function where he might find a suitable wife. His excuse? Varnish. The letter is a practical ode to the stuff. He spends his every moment at work with James Sadler on their infernal hot-air contraption. I swear, the man’s more int
erested in the silk skirts of a balloon than those of a woman.”

  Stirling settled back in the leather-tufted chair and scanned the letter as Lady Elana paced before the fire, the crackle of logs and soft swish of her burgundy gown the only sounds to be heard.

  “Fascinating,” Stirling murmured.

  Lady Elana paused. “I can’t say I care for that tone.”

  He chuckled. “Then tell me, why the difficulty with women? Does the man lack social graces?”

  “My dear fellow, I fear it’s a problem of the opposite kind,” she replied with more than a hint of dry amusement. “He’s far too comfortable charming his way under petticoats as the fancy strikes him.”

  Stirling nodded and placed the letter on the desk. “Then invite yourself to his balloon endeavors and bring me along. I must meet this man in order to find his match.”

  * * *

  Lady Elana stepped through the French doors, out onto the veranda, and sipped a glass of lemonade as she watched Ethan Brodie of Brodie, 21st Thane and Chief of Clan Brodie, work the bellows on the lawn of his London estate. Well over six feet, he was a beast of a man, square-jawed, and with blue eyes that crinkled around the corners when he laughed.

  She sighed. If only there were eligible women present. The way his muscles bulged under his white shirt couldn’t fail to catch an eye. He was a strikingly handsome man, who oozed an easy charm—a charm that had saved their lives more than once--but he’d left the King’s Service nigh on a year ago. Why hadn’t he put his charm to good use? If she could somehow manage to drag him in front of the season’s debutantes, perhaps one would manage to sink her claws in deeply enough to show the man exactly what a stable life could offer.

  Across the lawn, Ethan let out a shrill whistle. A handful of men rushed forward and rearranged the patched silk balloon that lay on the grass yet again. They’d tried all morning to inflate the thing—to no avail. Even Stirling had joined, a little too eagerly for Elana’s liking, and as the afternoon passed, she could only assume he’d lost sight of their original purpose.

  “Men,” she huffed under her breath. Men and their toys.