Three Nights with a Scoundrel: A Novel by Tessa Dare Read Free Book Online Page A

sigh, he tossed them all into the grate. He never had answered the things anyway. He simply appeared at events where and when the mood struck. Ironically, this complete disregard for etiquette had only enhanced his popularity. For when he did make an appearance, he did so in grand style, whether playing to a crowd of hundreds or entertaining an audience of one.
    An appearance by Julian Bellamy, he strove to ensure, ranked among a certain class of delights. Rather like roasted chestnuts at Christmas, or simultaneous orgasms. Not so rare as to be mythical, never so commonplace as to become boring. Dependably satisfying, occasionally transcendent. In sum, an experience to which no one could pretend ambivalence.
    Save Julian himself, of course. He pretended ambivalence very well indeed.
    It was a talent shared by his house staff. As Julian entered his bedroom suite, his valet greeted him from behind a sporting newspaper. “Good morning, sir.”
    “Good morning, Dillard,” Julian greeted him dryly. “Oh, please. Don’t get up.”
    A soft grunt was his only reply.
    “Is my bath drawn?”
    The newspaper rustled. “I reckon it is.”
    Dillard was the most spoiled, useless valet in all London. Normally, Julian demanded competence and efficiency from all people in his employ, but he made an exception for his personal servants. In this house, indolence and a marked lack of curiosity were desirable traits. Julian only kept Dillard on for appearances. Or rather, not for appearances. That was a valet’s usual post, of course—tending his gentleman employer’s appearance in all particulars: bathing, shaving, attire, and more. But where his own appearance was concerned, Julian attended to every detail on his own, save the laundering, pressing, and boot-blacking.
    He lowered his weight to a bench and removed his boots. “I’m off to bed,” he told Dillard, setting the boots neatly to one side. “Not to be disturbed. See that these are polished by tonight.”
    Another grunt.
    Julian left the man to his paper and crossed into his dressing room. It was a large space, formerly a bedchamber in its own right, but he’d had it fitted with custom shelving and mirrors. He tossed his befouled topcoat in the grate and stripped to his skin. After a hasty bath and a close shave, he wrapped an Oriental-patterned silk banyan about his torso.
    With grave deliberation, he selected a set of clothing for that evening. He had a new waistcoat in pigeon’s blood red, and this he laid aside for pressing, along with a royal blue topcoat with brass trim and charcoal-gray pantaloons. From his row of sixteen hats, he selected a jaunty blue felt with a red band. The color combination was revolting. But he needed to draw notice tonight, even more so than usual.
    Though he’d opposed the idea initially, on reflection he saw the potential in this social scheme of Lily’s. His investigative efforts were going nowhere. By withdrawing from public life, he’d given his enemy a sense of complacency.
    These were the inescapable facts: In trying to kill Julian, someone had killed Leo instead. If Julian wanted justice for Leo’s murder, he would have to draw the cowardly rat out of hiding—by making himself the bait.
    He’d start with dinner tonight, then a genial round of the clubs. All very friendly, all very tame—even if he had to sit on his hands when Morland drew near, just to keep it so. He would remain on good behavior through a few scattered, sedate appearances—the three evenings he’d promised Lily. Once he’d reestablished his place at the top of every guest list and Lily’s marital prospects were assured … only then would Julian Bellamy lay his trap.
    At the moment, however, Julian Bellamy was retiring to bed.
    Once inside the richly appointed bedchamber, he locked the door behind him. And then he waited. When a few minutes had passed and he was certain no one was listening, he followed the golden path of the carpet’s Greek maze border,