A Little Bit Wicked Read online

  VICTORIA ALEXANDER

  A Little Bit Wicked

  This book is dedicated to all those nameless librarians through the years who helped me discover worlds I never dreamed existed.

  To Rivka Sass and the librarians of the Omaha Library system for their commitment, enthusiasm and humor.

  And to my favorite librarian, Jeanne Hauser, because she can find anything, and she makes a wicked peanut butter ball.

  Contents

  Prologue

  “Very well then.” The Honorable Nigel Cavendish, the only son…

  Chapter 1

  It was far and away the perfect opportunity, and only…

  Chapter 2

  Lord Warton was annoyingly prompt but then she knew he…

  Chapter 3

  It was shocking. Completely shocking. She would never have believed…

  Chapter 4

  “You and Warton? Warton?” Susanna stared at Judith as if…

  Chapter 5

  “Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe; Say…

  Chapter 6

  What was it about this woman?

  Chapter 7

  “This has gone far enough, Gideon.” Judith sat across from…

  Chapter 8

  “I told you I would come to see you.” Judith…

  Chapter 9

  “Surely there is somewhere else we need to be this…

  Chapter 10

  Aunt Louisa burst into Gideon’s library, slammed the door closed…

  Chapter 11

  “I would scarcely call this a small, intimate gathering.” Gideon’s…

  Chapter 12

  Nottingdon, or at least Gideon assumed it was Nottingdon, smiled…

  Chapter 13

  It was perhaps the longest carriage ride she had ever…

  Chapter 14

  “Lady Chester has arrived, my lord,” Wells said in a…

  Chapter 15

  “What on earth is going on here?”

  Chapter 16

  “It is a fact one cannot deny that, on occasion,…

  Epilogue

  “Where are they again?” Sinclair said idly, swirling the brandy…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Victoria Alexander

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  London

  February 1854

  “V ery well then.” The Honorable Nigel Cavendish, the only son of Viscount Cavendish, who seemed in excellent health and was expected to live for many, many years, raised his glass a little higher. “Here’s to love.”

  “To love,” Oliver Leighton, the Earl of Norcroft, seconded.

  The toast echoed around the circle of four men who had gathered at their favorite club to privately mark the wedding of their friend Jonathon Effington, the Marquess of Helmsley, and Oliver’s cousin, Fiona, a scant few hours ago. In spite of the fact that each and every man raised his glass to love, there was a distinct variance in degrees of enthusiasm. It wasn’t that any of them was particularly opposed to the emotion, indeed, Oliver would have wagered every man here was at heart a romantic, with the possible exception of Daniel Sinclair. The American was new to their number and was an interesting addition to their group. He was, as well, their mutual hope for turning a tidy profit in a railroad development venture in America.

  “And to the ever-present desire that love, as opposed to mere duty, will accompany the inevitable,” Gideon Pearsall, Viscount Warton added.

  Sinclair raised a brow. “The inevitable being marriage?”

  Warton shrugged. “What else?”

  Although Warton might be an exception as well since he alone had experienced a taste of marriage and, given the circumstances, one would assume had experienced love as well. It was not far-fetched to further assume, due to the brevity of both the marriage and, no doubt, the love, neither had gone well, although he had never spoken of it and his friends had never asked.

  “Hear, hear.” Cavendish nodded.

  And then there was Cavendish who was far and away too busy having a grand time with any number of ladies to concentrate on one in particular. Love, for Cavendish at the present time, would be most inconvenient.

  As for Oliver himself, he was certainly not opposed to either love or marriage even though he was not hurtling headlong toward either at the moment.

  The men settled back in their chairs, and Oliver glanced around the circle. “So, I gather there are no questions as to the terms of the wager?”

  “The tontine,” Sinclair amended.

  “This tontine.” Cavendish pulled his brows together. “I hate to appear dim—”

  “And yet,” Warton murmured.

  Cavendish ignored him. “We all put in a certain sum—”

  “In this case a mere shilling,” Oliver said.

  “Which I still think is remarkably insignificant given the stakes,” Cavendish continued. “However, that is neither here nor there at the moment. And the winner, that is the last man among us to evade the bond of holy wedlock—”

  “Bondage being a more appropriate word than bond,” Warton said wryly.

  Sinclair grinned. “And I thought the most important word was evade.”

  “Well said.” Warton smiled and clinked his glass with the American.

  Cavendish narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “As I was saying, the last of us to survive, the last man standing as it were, wins the four shillings.” Cavendish shook his head. “Although I still don’t think four shillings is enough.”

  “It’s not the money.” Oliver shrugged. “The money is merely a symbol.”

  “Still,” Sinclair said thoughtfully, “he does have a valid point. Symbolism aside, four shillings does not seem a worthy prize for managing to avoid marriage for however long the tontine remains unclaimed.”

  “Perhaps not.” Warton considered the matter. “Depending on the fortitude of our respective natures, the last man standing might well have to use a cane to do so and a nurse to bring his whisky to his lips.”

  “Brandy,” Oliver said without thinking, then looked at the others. “Better still, Cognac. If I am the last one left, I should much prefer to celebrate the newfound fortune of four shillings with Cognac rather than anything else. We should add Cognac to the tontine.”

  “A very fine Cognac will age for a century or longer.” Admiration sounded in Warton’s voice. “Excellent idea.”

  “Much better than a mere four shillings.” Cavendish nodded with satisfaction. “Are we agreed then? We will add the bottle of the club’s finest Cognac to the tontine so that the last man will be able to celebrate.”

  “Or console himself,” Sinclair said with a smile.

  “Nonsense.” Cavendish grinned. “When that day comes, if the rest of you are nice to me and can escape from your wives, I shall share my Cognac with you.”

  “Unless, of course, it becomes my Cognac.” Oliver chuckled. “And I may or may not share.”

  Warton smiled in a dry manner. “Well, I, for one, have absolutely no intention of sharing.”

  If it had been a straightforward wager, Oliver would have put his money on Warton as the one most likely to remain unmarried the longest. Certainly, duty would compel them all to wed eventually, to produce an heir to their respective fortunes and titles. Even the American was under continued familial pressure to marry. But Warton was entirely too cynical to succumb to anything as frivolous as love. When he at last wed, Oliver was confident the decision would be well thought out, the bride a suitable young lady of good family and equally good fortune. No, Warton would indeed be the last to go.

  The question was, who would be the first?

  Chapter 1

  I
t was far and away the perfect opportunity, and only a fool would let it slip away. Gideon Pearsall, Viscount Warton, was no fool.

  He suspected no one else in the overcrowded parlor at Lady Dinsmore’s monthly evening of Musical and Literary Entertainments had noted the lovely Lady Chester discreetly leave the room. But then he doubted anyone else had been watching the charming widow with as close an eye as he had. No, all eyes were on the hostess’s insipid nephew, who even now, with a spritz or two of something into his mouth and numerous clearings of his throat, prepared to regale the gathering with his poetry of youthful passion and dubious quality. Gideon was confident therefore that no one would notice as well when he followed Lady Chester’s example. He sent a quick nod of thanks heavenward that he had had the foresight to plan his own escape and had positioned himself in the back of the room.

  He slipped out a side door and glanced down the corridor to catch a flash of blue silk skirt as the lady turned the corner. Access to Lady Dinsmore’s terrace lay in that direction, as he, and anyone else who had ever attempted to flee their hostess’s endless and not especially talented relations’ attempts at music or literature or what ever, well knew. Perhaps Lady Chester was in need of a breath of fresh air; it was extraordinarily stuffy in the parlor. It was possible as well that she could be meeting someone. Lady Dinsmore’s terrace was as well known as a trysting spot as it was as a refuge. Still, Gideon doubted it. Widows were not as encumbered by the strictures placed on society as never-married women; therefore Lady Chester had no particular need of secrecy. Beyond that, given everything he had heard about her, he suspected the lady rather liked being the center of gossip. And gossip, usually remarkably accurate, indicated the lady was not currently involved with anyone. Excellent. He grinned to himself. He too could use a bit of fresh air.

  Gideon had known Lady Chester for years, although he did not, in truth, know her at all. She was a passing acquaintance, someone to nod a greeting to on the street or exchange idle pleasantries with at a social gathering, nothing more than that. It was not until the Twelfth Night Ball she had hosted more than a month ago that what should have been little more than a few casual words between the two of them had without warning been fraught with something more significant and completely indefinable. It struck him with a force akin to a lightning bolt, an abrupt awareness of sorts, perhaps of a kindred spirit or the possibility of adventure or a heretofore unsuspected and unimagined attraction. One of his friends had said at the time that there was something in the air that night. Something of a magical nature. It was nonsense, of course. Still, the moment had dwelled in the back of Gideon’s mind, lingered just beneath the surface of his well-ordered life. Under other circumstances, he would not have hesitated to call on the widow. But there had been something in that moment that had urged caution as well. That too was extremely odd. Gideon was nothing if not cautious, yet he’d never before experienced a sense of caution in connection with a woman, even when he should have. It was damn near irresistible.

  He pushed open the glass door to the terrace, and his breath hitched at the cold of the February night. Still, it scarcely mattered at the moment. The night was unusually clear given the season, and Lady Chester’s figure was silhouetted against the star-laden sky. She stood a scant dozen feet or so away, gazing into the night. He started toward her, then paused, for the first time in years not entirely certain of himself.

  “Did you find it as stifling as I did or do you simply dislike poorly written poetry as much as I do?” Lady Chester said without turning around, a definite note of amusement in her voice.

  “Both I should think.” Gideon chuckled. “But is it wise to comment on either the atmosphere or the entertainment without first looking to see who has joined you? For all you know I could be Lady Dinsmore come to herd you back into the fold.”

  She laughed, a lovely rich sound as clear as the night itself. “I knew precisely who had joined me, my lord.”

  “Did you?” He stepped toward her, the beat of his heart quickening with his step. “How?”

  “Anyone who stations himself near the most discreet exit instead of sitting by the side of his aunt, who has probably insisted on his accompaniment to begin with, is obviously waiting to escape at the first opportunity. Beyond that”—she turned toward him—“you have been watching me all evening.”

  “Have I?”

  “Indeed you have.”

  “And you were aware of my perusal?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Because you were watching me as well?”

  “Absolutely.” She laughed. “But I think I was much more subtle.”

  “Oh?”

  “You did not notice me watching you whereas I—”

  He laughed. “Your point is well taken.”

  She studied him for a moment, the features of her face faintly illuminated by the light from the door and windows behind him. “Why have you not called on me?”

  His grin widened. “Did you expect me to do so?”

  “I did.”

  “Alas, I found I did not have the courage.” He adopted a mournful air. “I am not nearly as daring as I appear.”

  “I doubt that. Am I so intimidating then?”

  “Yes.” The word was out of his mouth before he knew it. He shook his head. “Intimidating is not the right word.”

  She tilted her head and gazed up at him. “What is the right word?”

  “Intriguing. Enticing. Fascinating. Terrifying.” He paused. “Mysterious.”

  “Mysterious?” She laughed. “I shall let terrifying pass for the moment, but do tell me why I am mysterious. It seems to me my life is very much an open book that no one has hesitated to read. I daresay, everyone knows virtually everything about me.”

  “Everything?”

  “Perhaps not everything but nearly so. I do have some secrets; every woman should, you know. Come now, my lord, I have been discreet in the decade of my widowhood but I have not spent those years”—she searched for the right word—“alone, as it were.”

  “I am aware of that,” he said simply. He was indeed aware that Lady Chester’s life since the death of her husband had not been lived in a despondent state of celibacy. One of his oldest friends had had a liaison with her several years ago and, to his credit or hers, even now considered her a friend.

  “I would wager so is everyone else in London. As I said, my life is a well-read book.” She spread her hands wide before her. “Why then would you call me mysterious?”

  “Perhaps because I have never met a woman I would call terrifying before either.”

  His words hung in the air between them, abruptly fraught with far more significance than he had intended. As well as entirely too much honesty.

  She drew a deep breath. “May I confess something to you?”

  “Is it something I wish to hear?” He stepped toward her. “Or will it put me firmly in my place? Send me packing to nurse the remains of my shattered heart?” He forced a light note to his voice.

  “I doubt any woman has the power to shatter your heart,” she said wryly. “You are the estimable Viscount Warton. You are well known for your wit and your dry sarcasm and your cutting manner. You are considered both aloof and arrogant—”

  “Arrogant?” He gasped in mock dismay.

  She nodded. “Most certainly arrogant. Superior, as it were, to those of us who are mere ordinary mortals.”

  “It is entirely without conscious effort on my part, I assure you.” He grinned. “Some of it.”

  “You do not deny, then, your arrogant manner or superior attitude?”

  “I should very much like to, but”—he shrugged—” no. I am as well aware of my flaws as I am of the more desirable aspects of my character. Aspects that are far too numerous to mention, I might add.”

  Amusement sounded in her voice. “Oh?”

  “Modesty forbids my discussing them at the moment.” He grinned in a manner that was not the least bit modest. “However, I should be more than h
appy to provide you with an itemized list of my sterling qualities at a later date.”

  She laughed.

  “Although I should warn you now that I count persistence among those qualities.” He paused. “I believe you mentioned a confession?”

  “Did I?” She shrugged. “It must have slipped my mind. For the life of me I cannot recall what I wish to confess to you.”

  “There is nothing then?” He stepped closer. “Nothing at all?”

  “Not a thing.”

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Surely there is something? Some secret perhaps you wish to unburden to a sympathetic ear?”

  “Regardless of the sympathetic nature of your ear, I scarcely think I know you well enough to unburden myself of anything to you.”

  He brushed his lips across her gloved hand and wished he could see into her eyes. But even with the light behind him, it was far and away too dark. Pity. They were blue, as he recalled, a deep, rich color. “Still, isn’t it much easier to unburden oneself to a stranger?”

  “Only if one is certain that stranger shall remain a stranger.” There was an interesting note in her voice, of challenge perhaps or invitation or simply amusement.

  “My dear Lady Chester.” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. “I have absolutely no intention of remaining a stranger.”

  “What do you intend?”

  “That is entirely dependent on you.” He wondered what she would do if he were to pull her into his arms. It would be highly improper. They were indeed very much strangers at the moment.

  “Is it?” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder.”

  “What?” He couldn’t recall ever having kissed a stranger before. It held a great deal of appeal. Especially in regard to this particular stranger.

  “If it is dependent on me.” She pulled her hand from his. “Or on something else. Forces already set in motion.”