The Heart of a Scoundrel (The Heart of a Duke #6)

The Heart of a Scoundrel (The Heart of a Duke #6)

Christi Caldwell



Chapter 1



London, England

Spring 1817

The lady wore an ivory, lace-trimmed, cashmere shawl. Such details generally only applied to an interest in how that delicate slip of material could be used for dark acts behind chamber doors. In this particular instance, that tedious, ladylike fabric would serve an entirely different purpose.

Seated behind his mahogany desk in the comforts of his own office, Edmund Deering, the Marquess of Rutland, absently rubbed his thumb and forefinger over the old, silken black tress. Such an act would be considered sentimental in any other gentleman. A hard smile turned the corner of his lips. Then, he was not most gentlemen. Ladies, dowagers, widows, and the husbands of a whole host of discontented wives would, in fact, say he was no gentleman at all.

And they would all be right.

The tress had been clipped a lifetime ago. Given to him as a token of affection, it had ultimately come to signify empty promises and the indefatigable truth—women were faithless, fickle creatures who’d splay their legs for the right title and not a thing more.

As if in agreement, the muscles of his right thigh tightened. He rubbed the old wound, welcoming the sharp reminder of his own past weakness.

A knock sounded at the office door and he stopped rubbing his leg. In one fluid movement, he tossed that scrap of hair into the rubbish bin at the side of his desk. He shifted his gaze to the clock. Odd, he’d not expect a wastrel to also be perfunctory. “Enter,” he drawled. His butler, Wallace, a loyal fellow who’d served Edmund’s father, entered. “The Viscount Waters to see you, my lord.”

Viscount Waters hovered at the threshold of the room.

Wordlessly, Edmund inclined his head and the servant backed out of the room, closing the door behind him, and leaving Edmund and Lord Waters alone.

The short, pudgy nobleman with a bulbous nose and, even more importantly, an enormous debt to Edmund shifted on his stout legs. “R-rutland,” he stammered. He tugged at his stark white cravat, highlighting the crimson red of his flushed cheeks. “Y-you summoned me?”

Dispensing with formalities, Edmund sprawled back in his chair. “Come in, come in,” he murmured resting his arms over the sides of his chair.

The balding viscount swallowed audibly and cast a desperate glance over his shoulder at the path the butler had retreated.

“I said come in,” Edmund said on a lethal whisper.

Lord Waters jumped. “Er, yes, of course, of course.” And yet, still, he lingered before stiffly moving forward. Perspiration dotted the man’s brow, which Edmund suspected had little to do with the exertions of his movement and everything to do with his unease.

The man feared him. Anxiety bled from his eyes, seeped from his lips. Fear made Edmund powerful. Weakened others. Yes, fear was good. Very good.

Lord Waters paused in front of his desk. He yanked a white handkerchief, embroidered with his initials, from the front of his pocket and dabbed at his brow, smartly silent. Likely the only thing which the man had ever been smart about.

“You have a daughter,” Edmund said, a steely edge to his words.

The older viscount blinked several times at the unexpected pronouncement. Always leave others unsuspecting. Unsettled individuals were careless and Edmund thrived off that the way he did fear. “A daughter?” the man squawked. Then a slow understanding glinted in his eyes. He paused mid-dab and thrust his handkerchief back into the front of his jacket. “Er, yes. Lovely, lovely gel. Quite lovely,” he rambled. “She’d make you a splendid—”

Edmund leaned forward and laid his forearms upon his desk. “I’ve no intention of making a match with your daughter.” He peeled his lip back in a sneer.

The man’s skin went ashen and he tugged out the kerchief once more. “Er, uh, yes…well, you’d have me settle our debt in other ways then, will you? Very well…”

A dark, ugly laugh rumbled up from Edmund’s chest cutting into the man’s offer. Lord Waters would sell his daughter. The darkness in people’s souls had ceased to surprise him long ago. “I’ve little desire in tupping your virginal daughter,” he snarled. Virgins didn’t interest him. Simpering young debutantes, innocent misses, held little appeal. He’d wait until they were wedded, bedded, and craving real lessons on passion.

“Oh.” The viscount rocked back on his heels. “May I sit?” He gave his lapels another tug.

Edmund arched an eyebrow at the man’s unexpected show of courage. He pointed to the leather winged back chair and the fat, fleshy lord ambled over then sank into the seat. The leather groaned in protest to the man’s hefty weight.

With deliberate, methodical slowness Edmund pulled open his desk drawer. He withdrew the leather folio inside.

The man’s skin turned white and he gulped. “Y-you have a b-book.” It was a statement of fact—a confirmation of a detail he’d likely heard bandied about at his clubs and gaming hells but had, until now, taken it as a rumor.

“Surely, you do not imagine you’re the only person indebted to me?” He made a clicking noise with his tongue. No, a whole host of gentlemen owed Edmund in some way or another. Exorbitant debts, promises made, favors pledged. Lord Waters was but one of those many and the man would now pay his debt. He opened the leather book, never taking his gaze from the viscount. “You owe me quite a vast sum.”