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

  Could he ever truly be certain Robert wouldn’t gamble again? These last six months, he’d been true to his word and hadn’t gone anywhere near a card table or gambling hall. But a lifetime lay ahead of them. With every unexpected knock on the door, Reade feared news that Robert once again sat hunkered over cards in a desperate attempt to win back losses he couldn’t cover. Any such losses now would put Robert and his family on the streets.

  “I believe you have made a mistake, sir.” A woman’s loud protest intruded upon the morose thought.

  Lady Buchman.

  “On the contrary,” a male voice replied, “no mistake at all. Lady Buchman, Abigail, you and I will get on famously.”

  “I have no intention of marrying you, sir. Now stand aside. “

  “Come now, sweet. Let me show you what I have to offer.”

  “If you show me what you have to offer, I will slice it off at the root.”

  Reade broke into a run. He rounded the castle an instant later and came to a sudden halt at sight of Lady Buchman as she dropped to a squat, snaked a foot around a man’s ankle and yanked. The man—Lord John, Reade realized—landed on his arse like a sack of potatoes.

  “I warned you,” she muttered.

  Fury contorted John’s mouth and he shoved to his feet. Lady Buchman took two quick steps beyond his reach.

  “You little witch.” He started toward her.

  Reade strode toward them. “I would think twice about that, John.”

  John whirled to face him. “What are you doing here, Reade?”

  “Like you, I am a guest.” Reade continued past him and stopped at Lady Buchman’s side. She didn’t look as if she’d been manhandled. Reade faced John. “Was there something more you wanted?”

  He shot a venomous glare at Abigail, spun, and strode away.

  Reade waited until he disappeared from sight, then looked at Abigail. “Are you unharmed?”

  She frowned. “Of course, I am unharmed. He lay on the ground, not I.”

  He had seen that, and the move interested him. It seemed female spies learned a trick or two about taking care of themselves. Still...

  “Aye, my lady. I see you have a penchant for walking in gardens alone.”

  “What—” She narrowed her eyes. “For your information, the night I met you I fled to the garden.”

  “If I recall, a gentleman was pursuing you.”

  “That is correct,” she said.

  “Just like today,” he said.

  She shrugged. “It isn’t my fault the world is filled with foolish men.”

  “I would say it is you who are foolish.”

  “Thankfully, I care nothing for what you think.”

  “So I see,” he murmured. “What were you doing in the garden alone this time?”

  Excitement sparkled her eyes. “I found a secret passageway leading from Mr. Russell’s library to the garden.”

  “I suspected your absence meant you’d already begun your investigation. Do you think it advisable to enter secret passageways alone?”

  “I encountered no trouble in the passageway.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “Shall we return to the castle?” He winged an arm.

  Unlike most women, who placed their hand in the crook of his arm, she grasped his arm and held tight as she kept pace with his stroll toward the open balcony doors.

  “You know Lord John,” she said.

  “Aye. We played cards last week.”

  “Did he lose?”

  “Only a hundred pounds,” he replied.

  “Still a tidy sum,” she said. “Though nothing compared to what you won at Lady Bingley’s party.”

  “Fortune favored me that night,” he said.

  “I suspect it had little do with fortune.”

  He looked sharply at her.

  “A man doesn’t win that consistently at cards unless he is skilled,” she said.

  He returned his attention forward. “I am a fair player.”

  “More than fair, I wager.”

  “Did you discover anything of interest in s

  “The door leading into the passageway was in good working order, and I detected little dust on the stairs.”

  “Any idea who occupies the two rooms connected to the passageway?”

  She shook her head. “But I will find out.”

  “Is your plan to simply search the entire castle?” he asked. “That seems rather daunting.”

  “I will try to glean clues from Mr. Russell first.”

  “He isn’t likely to tell you outright that he stole the crown jewels of Scotland. That’s treason.”

  She laughed. He liked the sound. “You would be surprised at what people will do and say,” she said. “If I get him drunk enough, he might tell me anything.”

  Reade would wager they would have to be in bed for that to be the case. Even drunk, unless Russell was distracted by her beautiful body, he wasn’t likely to give away a secret that could land him in prison for life.

  They rounded the keep wall on the south side of the building where the balcony was located. Half a dozen guests came into view walking from the lawn toward the balcony. They neared the first two men and Reade caught the knowing glances the men sent their way.

  Lady Buchman must have seen them, as well, for she angled her head gracefully and said, “Gentlemen.”

  “You’re encouraging them,” Reade whispered as they ascended the stairs to the balcony.”

  “That is the idea,” she replied.

  It was. Oddly, that bothered him.

  Chapter Seven

  Dinner began as a tired affair that paled in comparison to the gay parties Abigail had attended in Paris. Guests talked of other parties, dresses, horses and even food. The conversation between Mr. Morrison and Baron Aidair about a gaming hell where Mr. Morrison had won several hundred pounds was the most interesting conversation she heard. The man he’d beat had challenged him to a duel.

  Englishmen took too personally their losses. Of course, the French were known for fighting, but a dispute usually centered around a woman. She smiled at the recollection of a young count who challenged a gentleman who had proposed a very indecent meeting with her involving another gentleman. Abigail suspected the count’s proposition had more to do with his interest in the other gentleman than in her. The young count, however, remained determined to defend her honor.

  Perhaps, when she finished this mission, she should return to France. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to move in certain circles where she was known as Carlotta Durand. Well, perhaps she would, if she didn’t mind being Carlotta. That alias had afforded her some pleasure.

  She felt strangely anxious to end this mission. The only way to do that, however, was to locate the Honors. As she had little hope of doing so, the two weeks that stretched out before her seemed interminable.

  Wine flowed liberally, and Abigail indulged without restraint. Lord Russell sat at the head of the table halfway down from her, which left no chance of gleaning any information from him during dinner. The chair to her right remained empty. Lord Reade sat to her left. Mrs. Russell must have heard that Abigail was his latest conquest and had seated them together. Who was his most recent real conquest? From what Fanny said, he was much sought after, though she hadn’t heard of him until the night they met.

  Abigail reached for her glass and covertly glanced at him. She glimpsed the flick of his eyes at her hand and the thinning of his mouth. She’d caught similar looks from him with each refill of her wine glass.

  “Lady Buchman,” said young Baron Aidair, who sat across from her, “I understand you spent time in France. You were brave to visit in these tumultuous times.”

  “Not so brave,” she said. “I speak French like a Parisian, so no one knows I am English. Also, I did not visit Paris. That is too dangerous. I have friends in the north near Lille, so I entered through Belgium.” She smiled. “I was barely in France.”

  The light of adoration gleamed in his eyes and s
he sighed when he said, “I still say you are brave.”

  “If I recall, your brother owns Talsworth Castle,” said the woman to Lord Reade’s left.

  “That is correct,” he said.

  Abigail sipped wine and half listened to the Baron go on about the war and Napoleon’s sanity. Talsworth Castle. She’d heard of it. Built in the late thirteenth century—even before Castle Caithis—and located on the Isle of Skye, if she recalled. Lord Reade was brother to Lord Kinwall? A few months away from the world of espionage and she’d lost her edge. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask what nobleman he was related to. The Kinwall title went back at least four hundred years. Mr. Russell, direct descendant of Oliver Cromwell, would be green with envy.

  “I have never been to Skye,” the woman said to Lord Reade in a low, sultry voice.

  “Indeed?” he replied.

  A stab of jealously pierced her heart at the sensual note in his voice. He was here with her on assignment but couldn’t refrain from trifling with other women—while she sat beside him. What difference should it make? It wasn’t as if anyone believed him loyal to his new lover. Her gaze caught on his fingers as he grasped the stem of his wine glass. Warmth ripped through her at the thought of those fingers tracing a line along her jaw, down her neck to the rise of her breasts over the neckline of her bodice.

  She grimaced inwardly. Good Lord, she’d fallen prey to his damned charms. But she had to admit, those long, tanned fingers were beautiful. Abigail kept her gaze fixed on them as he lifted the glass and pressed the rim to his lips. Full, moist lips that would feel—

  “Lady Buchman.”

  Abigail jarred from her thoughts. For a heartbeat she thought Baron Aidair had spoken. Then she registered the man standing to her right and looked up into Viscount Chaluim’s face. She froze. Dear God in heaven. Lord Chaluim was a guest at this house party? How would she accomplish anything with him pursuing her as he had at Lady Bingley’s party?

  Eyes fixed on her, he pulled out the empty chair beside her.

  “Lord Chaluim,” Lord Reade said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Lord Chaluim paused in lowering himself onto his seat and angled his head in acknowledgement. “Sir,” he said, then sat and returned his attention to Abigail.

  “How was the drive here?” Lord Reade asked. “It looked like rain earlier.”

  Lord Chaluim looked past Abigail at him. “It was raining hard when I arrived.”

  “You were fortunate not to have encountered any difficulties on the drive.”

  Chaluim frowned. “Why would I have any difficulties?”

  Reade took a drink of wine “Why, the rain, as I just said. The road from Inverness becomes muddy rather quickly. I’ve seen more than one carriage mired during a bad rain.”

  “Of course, your carriage is never mired,” Lord Chaluim said with asperity.

  The couple across the table to Abigail’s right exchanged a glance. They, too, recognized Lord Chaluim’s goading.

  Lord Reade, however, went on as if he and Lord Chaluim exchanged mere pleasantries, “On the contrary, I have, on half a dozen occasions, found myself stuck in the mud.”

  Abigail ducked her head and took a bite of her quail in an effort to hide a smile. The way Lord Reade said ‘stuck in the mud’ gave her the distinct impression he meant that Lord Chaluim was a stick in the mud.

  Lord Chaluim nodded to a waiter who hurriedly filled his wine glass. “My driver is quite skilled,” Chaluim said. “He has yet to have the slightest difficulty driving in the rain.”

  “You are most fortunate,” Reade said.

  “Indeed,” he replied, then pointedly turned his attention to Abigail. “What good fortune that you are here, my lady. I have looked for you at the parties I attended, but to no avail. Now we shall be able to spend some time together. Is it too presumptuous of me to claim the first dance at tomorrow evening’s ball?”

  “You are too late for that,” Lord Reade said before she could reply. “I am pleased to say that I already claimed that dance.” He smiled at Abigail and she read a hint of humor in his eyes.

  “Then I will have to settle for the second dance,” Chaluim said stiffly.

  Abigail smiled. “Forgive me, Lord Chaluim, but my second dance is claimed, as well.” It wasn’t, but she would make sure to have a partner for that dance.

  “I would like to claim a dance, as well,” Baron Aidair interjected.

  “Third dance?” Viscount Chaluim said in such a pitiful voice she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “I am afraid so,” she said.

  Frustration flared in his eyes. “Perhaps it is best if I ask what dance you have available.”

  “Lady Buchman,” the young baron said, but Abigail answered Lord Chaluim.

  “The seventh dance.” She would be in a devil of a fix if she didn’t find five more partners. Four—the baron would take any dance she offered.

  Viscount Chaluim offered a tight smile. “I suppose I should count myself fortunate to be able to dance with you at all.”

  Abigail wanted to slap him. If she were just plain Abigail Matheson or even Lady Buchman, that is exactly what she would have done. But spies didn’t alienate party guests.

  She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I feel certain you will forgive me, particularly since I had no idea you would be here.”

  Uncertainty played across his features, then he smiled magnanimously. “Nothing to forgive, my dear. I’m pleased to be added to your dance card, at all.”

  Now she only had to find a way to excuse herself from that dance.

  Twenty minutes later, the gentlemen adjourned for cigars and brandy. The ladies left the dining room and gathered in a lavish parlor on the second floor. Abigail went straight for the balcony and gazed out over the gardens. She breathed deep of the cool night air. How she longed for a walk. The wine at dinner had been good—too good, in fact—and a walk would do wonders for clearing her head. She imagined Lord Reade’s expression should he return to the parlor to find her gone and walking alone in the garden. A perverse desire to see that now-familiar frown of disapproval on his handsome face almost motivated her to head for the parlor on the ground floor where a balcony opened into the garden. But The Raven would never forgive her for bungling a mission because she wanted to get a man’s attention.

  Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt. Why in the world had she thought that? She didn’t want Lord Reade’s attention. Did she? Nae. He lived for women who wanted his attention. She had no intention of being one of the empty-headed females who batted her eyelashes at him as Lady Julia had done at dinner. Abigail glanced over her shoulder and saw the lady in question seated on the divan near the fire in deep conversation with another woman Abigail didn’t know. Interestingly enough, with no male in the room, Lady Julia’s coquettish behavior had disappeared.

  Abigail returned her attention to the garden. The rain had cleared the sky and the stars shone brightly.

  Male voices filtered to her and Abigail realized the men had arrived. She hated to leave the quiet of the balcony. The other women had stayed indoors, so she’d had the night to herself. Lord John’s voice boomed over the other men’s voices. The man was boorish. Still, she needed to return to the festivities.

  When The Raven had said she had another mission, anticipation had hummed in her. But she’d lost her taste for this mission. Why? Perhaps because she didn’t believe Mr. Russell had stolen the Honors. But it wasn’t her place to question an order from a superior.

  She put on a smile and returned to the parlor to find Lady Julia’s hand on Lord Reade’s arm, the coquettish expression back on her face. She lowered her gaze and Abigail was startled at the boredom that flashed across his face.

  “Lady Buchman,” Lord Chaluim called.

  She had to find a way to get rid of the man.

  He reached her side an instant later. “Won’t you sit with me?”

  She had no choice.

  To Lord Chaluim’s obvious fr
ustration—and Abigail’s amusement—Baron Aidair sat on the divan opposite them and joined in the conversation. When Mr. Wesley, a wealthy investor from Edinburgh, joined them, Abigail felt certain Lord Chaluim would come to blows with one or both men.

  “Lady Buchman and I are old friends,” Lord Chaluim assumed the superior tone the peerage used when addressing anyone not born to the noble class.

  “But I love making new friends.” She smiled at Mr. Wesley. “Don’t you agree, Lord Chaluim?”

  “I wouldn’t think of disagreeing with you, my lady.”

  Not until he had her married, pregnant and tucked away in the country somewhere while he spent her money in Edinburgh or London. The prig.

  Fifteen minutes later, she gave thanks when Mr. Wesley vacated the chair to the right of her seat and Lord Reade sat down.

  “Lord Reade,” she said, “did you enjoy your cigar and brandy with the other gentlemen?”

  “My brandy, yes,” he said. “I do not smoke.”

  “My father loved a good cigar,” she said. “Sometimes, I swear I can still smell his cigars.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  The gentleness of his tone surprised her and her cheeks heated with embarrassment. Rarely did she lapse into public memories of her father.

  “Five years,” she answered.

  “Not long,” he said, and her heart constricted at the understanding in his voice.

  “It isn’t, is it?” she said. “People are kind, but I can tell that they think I’m being overdramatic by missing him so much after five years.”

  “You never fully get over the loss of a loved one,” he said. “But you do learn how to cope with the loss.”

  Lord Chaluim patted her arm. “It’s best to concentrate on the present and those who love you.”

  Lord Reade’s face clouded, and she quickly said to Lord Chaluim, “Of course, you are right, that does help.”

  The disdain on Lord Reade’s face said he didn’t agree.

  “One never quite gets over the loss of a parent,” Baron Aidair said.

  Abigail’s heart tugged. The lad had been but nineteen. Too young to lose a parent, when he’d lost both. She offered him a gentle smiled. “As Lord Reade said, we do learn to live with the loss, but nothing takes away our memories.”