Free Scandal And The Duchess by Jennifer Ashley

sympathy.
    “You’re lucky she’s such a sweetheart,” Steven said to Albert. “And that she walked into the room just now.”
    “I’ll have the law on you,” Albert snarled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
    “No, you will not,” Rose said decidedly. She was an angel in black, her hair and face the only color in the gloom. “Captain McBride is here to help me take the furniture Charles left me, that is all. I’ve rung for John—he and Thomas and James will carry down the chest from the old parlor.”
    “What furniture?” Albert snapped. “You can’t take any furniture.”
    “It’s in the will,” Steven said, stopping himself from slamming the man into the table again. “Two pieces of furniture, her choice. She’s chosen one; she’ll be back for another.”
    “My solicitor—” Albert spluttered.
    “May contact Her Grace in London.” Steven went to Rose and took her elbow. “I think we should be off, love,” he said softly to her.
    “Don’t call her
Her Grace
,” Albert snarled behind them. “She’s not a duchess—she’s the bloody whore who killed my father. She deserves nothing.”
    Steven let go of Rose and swung back to Albert. Albert, eyes widening, tried to evade him, but Steven caught him by the collar, ignoring Rose’s cry.
    Slam!
Albert’s face went once more into the table. “She deserves a commendation for not killing
you
,” Steven said, each word tight. “Don’t speak to her again except through her solicitor. His card.” Steven withdrew a card Collins had given him and slapped it on the table in front of Albert’s head. “Good day to you, sir.”
    He gave Albert another shake before he released the man’s collar and left him. Rose was staring, wide-eyed, but Steven turned her away and steered her out of the room.
    ***
    “It’s pretty,” Sinclair McBride, Steven’s brother, said later that evening. “What is it?”
    Steven had placed the cabinet in the middle of the parlor of his suite at the Langham. Rain fell outside, droplets lingering on Sinclair’s short hair, which was the same shade of blond as Steven’s.
    Albert had in the end not stopped John and two other footmen from lugging the cabinet down the stairs and loading it into the waiting cart. The cabinet had filled the small dogcart, leaving no room for Steven and Rose.
    Steven had then bade John to fetch the coachman from his tea and have him hitch up Albert’s carriage to take him and Rose to the train. Though worried about Albert’s reaction, John and the coachman seemed happy to do anything for Rose. Likewise, Miles, the town coachman, had been willing to collect Steven, Rose, and the cabinet from the station in London. Rose had won them over.
    Not much wonder. One smile from her red lips, one twinkle of her eyes, and men fell over themselves to do her bidding. Journalists with too much time on their hands had assumed she’d used that natural charm to make men do her favors, including in her bed.
    Rose was in her bed right now—alone—napping after their trip. She’d told Steven upon their arrival that, thinking it over, she was resigned to selling the cabinet.
    She’d looked sad, but resolved, and Steven had sent for his brother to talk to him about the matter. Sinclair had arrived through the now-falling rain, to study the cabinet in curiosity.
    “It’s a collection cabinet,” Steven said in answer to Sinclair’s question. “By George Bullock, circa 1815. I’m trying to find out what it’s worth.”
    Sinclair pinned his younger brother with a hard stare. That stare, along with Sinclair’s ability to obtain any verdict he wanted in court, had earned him the moniker of the Scots Machine. His colleagues called him that—the unlucky villains in the dock had named him Basher McBride.
    The Scots Machine now assessed Steven. “I’m a barrister, not an antiques dealer. Why did you send for
me
?”
    Steven shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d know someone who could sell it for