Never Love a Scoundrel (9 page)

Jason moved closer and kept his voice low. This was not the best place to conduct this conversation, but he simply couldn’t contain himself. “What are you doing here?”

Ethan blinked, trying his best to look innocent, but Jason wasn’t fooled. “Sharing a glass of champagne with my brother. Surely there’s nothing odd to question about that.”

Ethan was provoking him as he always did. Jason worked to keep his temper in check. This man had monopolized their father’s time and affection, his very existence had contributed to Jason’s mother’s mental collapse, he’d demanded things that didn’t rightfully belong to him, and he’d caused Jason to lose whatever tentative standing he’d had in Society following Mother’s confinement. He’d ruined Jason’s life.

He smiled blandly and sought to aggravate Ethan in return. “And that’s the difference between you and me. I find everything odd about it. We may be blood related, but our relationship is not brotherly.”

Ethan frowned slightly. “This isn’t going the way I’d hoped. How disappointing.”

He couldn’t be serious. They’d practically killed each other seven years ago and now he wanted to be bosom brothers?

Contemplating what to say, Jason sipped his champagne and nearly choked as the false-sweet tones of Margaret Rutherford snaked through the room. “Lydia, dear, aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Jason swung around so quickly that his elbow caught Lydia’s shoulder and knocked her off balance. She grasped at his arm with her free hand. He reached for her waist and held her upright. Champagne sloshed from both of their glasses and a large amount splattered Jason’s coat. Her gaze met his, and the pained surprise in their depths almost distracted him.

But then the grating voice came again. “Don’t manhandle my niece!”

Her
what
?

He made sure Lydia was firmly on two feet and then let go of her as quickly as he’d grabbed her. Then he took a step back for good measure. He stared at Lydia’s suddenly distressed expression. How could this witty and lovely young woman be related to that harpy? His gaze swept to the small, round woman he despised almost as much as the bastard viewing this entire proceeding with the undisguised interest of a bettor watching a fight.

A footman rushed to take Lady Lydia’s glass as she brushed at the champagne saturating her glove. “Aunt Margaret, he wasn’t manhandling me, he was saving me from disgrace.”

Why was she defending him? Perhaps she hadn’t accompanied him in here out of kindness after all. What if she was only aligning herself with him to support her aunt’s destruction of his family? Her interest in him, her impertinent questions, her brash invitation to walk in the garden, even her support tonight . . . all of it led him to believe she was a copy of her aunt. Or maybe a puppet. Either way, he needed to be on his guard around her.

The same footman took Jason’s glass and retreated from the room. The front of Jason’s coat sported a wet mark that looked like an ever-spreading inkblot.

Margaret swept Jason with a razor-sharp perusal. After snickering at the stain on his coat, her gaze moved up and lingered on his scar. “It’s been a long time, Lockwood.” She flicked a look at Lydia. “I’m still waiting for my introduction to Mr. Locke, dear.”

Lydia started as if she’d woken from a stupor and quickly moved between her aunt and Ethan. “Allow me to present Mr. Locke. Mr. Locke, this is my great-aunt, Lady Margaret Rutherford.”

Margaret held out her stubby fingers and Ethan bowed over her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Locke,” Lady Margaret sang.

Ethan stood and released her hand. “I understand we have you to thank for celebrating our brotherhood with the masses.”

Lady Margaret shot Jason a superior, taunting glance.

That was all he could stand. He could barely stomach the veiled taunts he was exchanging with his half brother, and he sure as hell couldn’t endure Lady Margaret’s gloating. His evening suit felt tight, hot, constricting. After so many years of mastering his reactions, he felt his control slipping, and he couldn’t let that happen here. Not when all of London was watching—and waiting—for it. Thankfully, he could blame his hasty departure on the ruination of his coat. He gestured toward his soggy lapel. “Please excuse me.”

Ethan looked as if he wanted to say something, but he merely inclined his head. “Good evening, Lockwood. I trust we’ll meet again soon.”

Jason looked forward to it—but it wouldn’t be in the middle of a bloody ball. “Count on it.” He gave Margaret no such consideration and stalked from the room without a glance in her direction.

His gaze, however, fell on Lady Lydia as he passed her. She kept her eyes averted from his.
Good.
Whatever he’d imagined had passed between them on the dance floor went up in flames. That he’d enjoyed the company of Margaret’s blood kin made his stomach roil.

When he shifted his attention to his path, he finally noticed the crowd of people that had gathered at the entrance to the buffet room. He flashed them all a counterfeit smile as he cut through their throng. They scurried to get out of his way. Sometimes it was helpful to be able to scare people away with only a tip of one’s scarred head.

He made his way similarly through the ballroom. The music continued playing, but the sounds of laughter and chatter dimmed upon his entrance. He inclined his head as he passed the majordomo and exhaled heavily as he gained the cooler air outside the ballroom.

Tonight had not gone as planned, but he blamed himself. Next time,
he’d
orchestrate the meeting with Ethan, and it would go the way
he
intended. He’d underestimated the effect of putting himself on display, inviting Society’s opinions and reactions. Furthermore, he hadn’t imagined coming face-to-face with his mother’s nemesis, which he should have done. But then nothing could have prepared him for learning that the young woman he’d flirted and waltzed with was her niece.

He descended the staircase to the foyer. As he neared the foot, a gentleman escorting a petite young woman drew his attention. His gaze fixed on Jason’s scar. “Lord Lockwood?”

His ruined face was as identifying as if he’d strapped a calling card to his forehead. Jason gave him a patient, somewhat patronizing look. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage . . . ”

The man had the grace to don a slight flush and quickly avert his eyes. “My apologies.” Then he brought his gaze back up and met Jason unflinchingly. “I’m Carlyle.”

The name Carlyle sparked something in his memory. Then it came to him. “The former constable?”

He nodded. “The same.”

Jason remembered the remarkable story of the constable who’d inherited a viscountcy, and now he recalled that Carlyle had taken a wife. Jason offered a bow to his companion. “Lady Carlyle.”

She curtseyed in response. “My lord.”

But there was more to Carlyle—he’d been a close friend of Lord Aldridge. Jason was suddenly pleased the man had recognized him. However, Jason couldn’t interrogate him about a potential connection between Ethan and the deceased earl at the base of a staircase in the middle of a ball. “Carlyle, you should come to Lockwood House some time.”

Carlyle glanced at his wife and drew her closer. It was the reassuring behavior of a besotted husband. He perhaps thought Jason meant he should come to a vice party, so Jason set Lady Carlyle’s mind at ease. “Come for a game of billiards. I’ve an excellent table.”

Still, he made a mental note to have North invite him to a party anyway, though he doubted the newly married Carlyle would attend.

Carlyle inclined his head and again met him eye to eye. “I would very much like to continue our acquaintance.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Jason moved past them and nodded at a footman who rushed off to summon his coach.

Given his past life as a constable, could Carlyle be aware of Ethan’s criminal activities? Jason looked forward to finding out. Perhaps tonight hadn’t been such a disaster after all.

As Jason settled himself into his coach, he recalled the pained look in Lady Lydia’s eyes when that harpy, Margaret, had surprised them. For a brief moment on the dance floor, he’d allowed himself to believe Lady Lydia might be different. Yes, she stared at his scar like everyone else, but not for the same reasons. She wasn’t frightened of or revolted by him.

It was a genuine shame she was related to Margaret. But maybe there was more to Lady Lydia’s story. He should know better than anyone not to judge someone based on familial relation. Perhaps he owed Lady Lydia the second chance he’d never been given.

FOLLOWING LOCKWOOD’S
rather dramatic exit, Lydia had excused herself to dry her champagne-sodden glove. However, by the time she reached the retiring room, her glove had nearly dried. Even so, she appreciated the opportunity for a moment’s reprieve.

She found a mirror to survey her appearance. Her hair was still in place and she looked the same as always. Too-dark eyes against her alabaster skin. But what did she expect? That an evening in the company of London’s two most talked-about gentlemen would somehow make her look different?

The door opened and two ladies stepped inside. Their eyes widened upon seeing Lydia, but before they could pounce on her with their rabid questions, Lydia excused herself and fled the room.

In the corridor, she turned away from the ballroom in search of a quiet place in which to take respite. She didn’t want to gossip anymore. Not tonight. Not
ever,
but Aunt Margaret wouldn’t allow that.

More importantly, she didn’t want to gossip about Lord Lockwood.

She’d obeyed her aunt all these years in the hope that she would somehow find the life she wanted—a good marriage and standing in Society, but she couldn’t willfully ruin someone else’s life. Especially Jason Lockwood’s. She thought of their waltz and shivered, though she wasn’t the least bit cold.

What she needed right now wasn’t the company of scandalmongers. What she needed was a moment alone with her thoughts. And the unexpected pleasure of her memories.

Her feet carried her to a door near the end of the corridor. Her heart picked up speed as she opened it slowly. One never knew what one might find behind a closed door at a ball. On occasion, Lydia had gone searching for scandal to report—at her aunt’s behest—and had even found it a time or two. This time, however, she was just searching for solitude.

At first glance the room appeared empty. Exhaling, Lydia closed the door behind her and stepped inside.

“Lady Lydia.”

She jumped as she discerned the tall figure of Mr. Locke standing in the shadows near the thick velvet curtains lining the window. If he hadn’t spoken, she might never have seen him. “Mr. Locke, I’m sorry to disturb you. If you’ll excuse me.” She turned to leave.

“Wait. That is, if you don’t mind, I would like to speak with you.” He stepped away from the curtains. “We were interrupted earlier. I should appreciate the opportunity to finish our conversation.”

What more did he mean to discuss? Was he going to disclose more information about Lady Aldridge?

Lydia’s fingertips rested against the doorframe as she considered his invitation. To stay would mean more information for Aunt Margaret and she could perhaps count this night as her most successful ever. But it also meant risk to her reputation. If she was found in this room with Ethan Locke of all people, she’d be socially crucified.

Maybe not.

She’d survived being accused of attending Lockwood House with a blackguard last Season. In fact, she’d come out of that scandal more popular than ever. She turned back to face him with a smile. “Certainly, Mr. Locke, however we must be brief. I’m sure you’re aware that my being alone with you like this is more than a bit scandalous.”

His smile was vague. “I should have realized. It’s a simple matter and shouldn’t take too much of your time.” He prowled toward the center of the room where the fire in the hearth and the lanterns on the mantel and on a table better illuminated his features. They might be half brothers, but their appearances were as much alike as if they were full blood. Locke, however,
looked
more approachable, likely because his face was smooth and handsome. “How well do you know Lockwood?”

Lydia watched his movements, her curiosity more than piqued. This made twice Locke had sought her out tonight. “Not well at all. We’ve met less than a handful of times.”

He picked up a carved wooden dog from the table with the lantern and studied it idly. “But you’ve formed an opinion, have you not? Just as you’ve formed an opinion about me.”

She walked along the perimeter of the room, moving a bit closer to where he stood. “I don’t have a clear opinion of either of you yet. I can say without hesitation that Lockwood is an excellent dancer. And you perhaps don’t dance at all.” She’d never seen him take to the dance floor, and he’d pointedly taken her for a stroll earlier.

He returned the dog to its resting place and inclined his head. “I knew you were intelligent. But you’re not being completely honest.” His voice dropped a bit, became soft, but there was an edge of steel that pricked her senses and put her on guard. His gaze was steady, holding hers in rapt attention. “You danced with him. You accompanied him into the buffet room. You stood by his side. I think you
have
formed an opinion about him.”