Page 4 of A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal (The Secret Life of a Lady #2)

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He had done the inconceivable. Offered marriage. To Millicent. And her father had agreed. Major General Drake planned to get a special licence the very next morning.

Of all the asinine, godawful outcomes. He really was the most stubborn man.

Millie struggled to sleep that night and woke from heated dreams, her sheets tangled around her legs. She could imagine Major General Drake striding up to the Archbishop of Canterbury, demanding a special licence while she sat in her bedroom, sipping tea and crunching on burnt toast. It was madness.

She was determined to visit Philippa as soon as she could get dressed. Together, they’d sort out this horrific mess. But when she rushed down the steps, ready to take her father’s carriage to Lady Winterbourne’s Belgrave Square mansion, Patricia met her at the bottom of the stairs.

‘You aren’t going anywhere, you wicked girl.’

Millie continued walking, ready to push past the woman.

‘You cannot stop me from seeing Lady Philippa. She is my friend.’

‘Davies!’ Patricia screeched.

Their butler arrived. Davies had worked for the Whittenburg’s since before Millie was born. He was a stickler for propriety but could never refuse Millie. He used to sneak her lemon drops from his pockets when she was a child.

‘Yes, my lady?’

‘Secure Miss Millicent in her room. Lock the door. We don’t need her escaping, do we?’

Two red slashes painted his wrinkled cheeks as he looked from Millie to Patricia. He would never use force on Millie. Already, she could see the flash of shame in his eyes at Patricia’s command.

Patricia knew his loyalty to Millie. She knew her orders put him in an untenable situation where he couldn’t obey, but nor could he refuse. She was punishing Davies just as much as she was trying to control Millie.

‘Miss Millicent, please.’ He extended his arm toward the stairs, his stoic face trembling, his brown eyes pleading with her to comply.

Millie huffed out a frustrated breath. She relented, more to save poor Davies’ feelings than to appease her stepmother.

‘Of course, Davies. I know the way.’

Returning to her room, she heard the lock click behind her.

‘If Patricia thinks she can contain me with a measly lock, she’s an even bigger idiot than I imagined,’ Millie muttered to herself.

She sat on her bed and plotted her next move.

Day turned to evening with not even her maid being allowed to bring her a tray for lunch or dinner. As the sun descended and darkness fell, Millie waited for the house to grow silent. Her coat – still draped over the bedframe from her thwarted excursion – was a dark grey. Perfect for keeping her hidden in the shadows. She put it on and approached the door, pressing her ear against the wood to listen.

Silence greeted her. Everyone was abed.

Philippa had taught her to pick all different kinds of locks with a ring of skeleton keys in varying lengths and sizes. She kept them tied to her petticoat. It took several tries, but after three minutes of whispered curses, the lock turned.

Huzzah! I’m a lock-picking genius!

Millie carefully opened the door and poked her head out, looking down the hall to her father’s and Patricia’s suite of rooms. Their doors were closed and no light shone from the cracks. Glancing the other direction toward the stairs, the hall was empty. She slipped out, carefully shutting the door behind her.

As she crept down the stairs – making sure to avoid the creaking third step – her heart pounded in her ears, and a thrill of excitement coursed through her veins.

Here I come. Femme fatale. Brilliant secret spy for the Queen of bloody England!

A door creaked.

Millie nearly screamed.

Ah. Well. Perhaps not exactly femme fatale.

Davies emerged from the darkness. Millie opened her mouth, desperately seeking a viable lie. Aaannd… nothing.

‘I’m just…’

Davies shook his head, his finger pressing against his lips. He motioned her to a door cleverly hidden in the wooden panelling. When they were inside the dimly lit servants’ corridor, he spoke. ‘Lady Whittenburg drank enough wine to keep her sleeping till noon tomorrow, but your father’s always been a light sleeper. Take this to the kitchens and use the servants’ entrance. I’ll make sure the door stays unlocked. Be careful, Miss Whittenburg. The streets are not safe for a lady.’

Millie felt tears burn her eyes. She wished she could hug the dear man but knew he would hate such a show of familiarity. Instead, she winked.

‘Thank you, Davies.’

The stern butler ducked his head like a bashful schoolboy. ‘Off with you, Miss Millicent.’ In addition to the lantern, he handed her a wrapped sandwich and a lemon drop. ‘In case you might be hungry.’ Millie couldn’t stop the wobble in her chin, but Davies pretended not to notice her emotional display. ‘Be back before sunrise, or your father will be taking his breakfast and might see you.’

‘You are wonderful, Davies. I hope you know how lucky we are to have you.’ Even in the dim light of the lantern, she could see the man’s cheeks turn red. Not wishing to cause him further embarrassment, Millie slipped past him and rushed down the servants’ hall toward the kitchen.

Lady Winterbourne lived in Belgrave Square, a mere ten-minute carriage ride from Millie’s house. But in the middle of the night, on foot, the journey seemed daunting.

‘Pull yourself together, Millie.’ Refusing to let her imagination run wild, she put her long legs to use, striding through the London night as if it belonged to her. The sandwich and lemon drop helped immensely. Thirty minutes later, she climbed the stone stairs of Lady Winterbourne’s house.

She knocked twice, and the huge door opened. A tall, dour man stared at her. He stood as straight as a ruler and blinked at Millie. His thin lips tightened into a pale line.

‘Hello, Stokes. Please tell Her Grace I must see her.’

The butler pulled a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and took his time flicking it open. ‘Her Grace is not accepting callers at half past midnight.’ His voice was as cold and hard as his gaze.

‘Stokes, who is at the door?’ Philippa’s familiar voice filled Millie with relief.

Stokes refused to turn around, but Millie didn’t miss how his shoulders jerked like he’d been hit with a bullet.

The door opened wider and Philippa shoved Stokes out of the way. ‘Millicent. What’s happened? Come in. Stokes, don’t just stand there like some decaying statue. Take Millicent’s coat.’ When Stokes only blinked at Philippa, she scowled. ‘Can you hear me?’ She repeated the command, almost yelling in the man’s ear. ‘Take Millicent’s coat!’

Stokes’ face remained impressively blank. Without a word, he took Millie’s jacket, turning to walk slowly down the hall.

‘Horrid man.’ Philippa’s gaze followed him before she turned, her blue eyes assessing Millie. ‘Are you well?’

Emphatically not.

Millie shook her head. ‘No.’ She followed Philippa into her front sitting room, spilling out the entire awful affair.

By the time Philippa had heard everything, Millie had a tumbler of whiskey in her hand and felt marginally better. The duchess would know what to do.

‘I must say, Millicent. I’m not sure what to do.’

Bollocks!

‘Can’t I just run away?’ Though the thought of never seeing Major General Drake again filled her with a surprisingly hollow ache.

Philippa waved her hand, dismissing Millie’s question like a fly buzzing around a cream cake. ‘We don’t run away, Millicent. We run toward. We are the Queen’s trusted few. No. I think the best course of action is to convince Major General Drake to break the engagement.’

‘I tried that. He is a stubborn, stupid,’ delicious , ‘pompous ass.’

‘Of course he is. He’s a man.’

Millie snorted.

Philippa rubbed her index finger against her thumb. ‘Fine. If you can’t convince him to beg off, then our plans to set you up as a maid are dashed.’ She took a healthy sip of her own glass. ‘We can still make this work. I have a meeting with the Queen tomorrow. She has a certain lord of interest she wishes us to focus on in our investigation. Once I have his name, we can take advantage of your wedding to create a trap.’

Millie shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Your stepmother’s sure to invite the entire beau monde to watch your humiliation. We can use that to our advantage. I shall write to Patricia and encourage a week-long celebration at Major General Drake’s country house. In the wilds of Bedfordshire, as I recall. Once I know who the Queen wishes for us to target, I can ensure your stepmother sends him an invitation.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then we trap a killer, Millicent.’ Philippa’s red lips curled in a vicious smile. ‘The Queen will be duly impressed by your skills, and a married woman has much more freedom in the beau monde. Especially when her husband prefers a distant marriage, as Major General Drake is sure to do. This could work splendidly. By the by, I have an early wedding gift for you.’

Millie almost fumbled her cup. ‘Dear Lord. A wedding gift.’ It all suddenly felt very real.

Philippa stood and walked to the bell pull, ringing for Stokes. Several minutes later, he appeared.

‘Shall I call for a doctor, madame? I’ve heard insomnia is an early sign of your mental faculties failing.’

Philippa arched her brow. ‘I’m quite well, thank you, Stokes. If you feel my hours are too exhausting for you, I’m more than prepared to pension you off to a nice cottage in the country where you can eat your supper at noon and retire to bed before the sun descends.’

‘On the contrary, madame. I’m invigorated by your complete disregard of social rules.’

‘Wonderful. Why don’t you use that vigour to fetch the package on my dresser.’

Twenty minutes later, Stokes returned, a leather pouch in his hands.

‘Finally. I thought you’d succumbed to your excessive age and expired on your way back here.’ Philippa took the gift from Stokes, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

The butler’s stiff posture tightened further as he turned and exited.

Millie stood and approached Philippa. The duchess handed her the soft pouch dyed the colour of fresh fern leaves in spring.

‘It’s beautiful.’ Millie brushed her fingers over the supple leather.

Philippa’s lips twitched. ‘You haven’t opened it yet. The real gift is inside. Go on.’

‘Your Grace, you really shouldn’t have.’

‘Stop with the “Your Grace” nonsense and open the damn gift. You might not even like it.’

Millie ducked her head to hide her smile. She carefully unbound the leather ties and flipped open the soft case to reveal a set of five dangerously sharp throwing knives. Mother of pearl was inlaid into each hilt. They must have cost a small fortune. Millie gasped as she carefully removed one from where it was secured in the leather case.

‘Phillipa. They’re gorgeous! And far too dear to give me as a gift.’

‘I’m the Duchess of Dorsett. I’m lousy with money and can do whatever the hell I please.’ Philippa lifted her chin and sniffed. She pointed to the case. ‘There are straps and sheaths for each of them in the pocket there. You can strap them on your thighs or wrists. But be careful. I have no desire to see you cut yourself to ribbons.’

Millie nodded, her eyes still on the knives as she put the blade back and looked in the pocket.

‘Your skill at throwing blades is impressive. You should have weapons worthy of your abilities.’

Millie’s throat ached, and she swallowed hard. It was such a thoughtful gift. But the real prize was Philippa thinking her worthy of such beautiful weapons.

‘Hannah trained with me for ten years before I felt comfortable letting her take on men as dangerous and deadly as the bastards we are inviting to your wedding. Their secret society is powerful, Millie. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who stands in their way. And if we aim to expose them – as we do – we pose an even greater threat. You are talented, but you are also new to this. I won’t have you racing into a dangerous situation unarmed and unprepared.’

Fear tightened Millie’s chest. In the weeks of training with Phillipa, she appreciated her skills improving, her body becoming stronger, and her confidence growing. However, she had always viewed the actual task of investigating as somewhat of a lark. But Philippa was correct. This wasn’t a game. Real girls were being sold, some of them killed. The men responsible stood to lose everything if they were discovered. She mustn’t let her newfound confidence lead her into a situation where she might be out of her depth.

‘I’ll be careful, Phillipa.’

‘We have some time. We must practise even harder to prepare.’

Millie took an unsteady breath. ‘Patricia won’t let me come. I’m sure of it. She’s so angry with me for thwarting her plans with Viscount Tread. I had to pick the lock to my door to come here tonight.’

Philippa hissed out a breath. ‘Fine. Then you must train on your own until we reunite at the wedding.’

‘I will. I promise. I should go before anyone notices I’m gone.’

‘You’ll take my carriage.’ Philippa walked back to the bell pull. ‘Stokes will have to rouse the stable boys. A task I’m sure he’ll love.’ Her wicked smile told a different tale.

Millie’s trip home was much faster and more comfortable than her journey to Philippa’s.

She carefully opened the door to the servants’ entrance. Davies was as good as his word, making sure it was unlocked. He had even put a candle stub on the kitchen counter.

Such a sweet man!

Millicent lit a wisp with a coal from the banked fire, then lit the candle. She blinked in the sudden light.

‘My, my. What exactly were you up to, Daughter?’

Blast!

Patricia sat at the kitchen table in a nightgown of frills and lace. A silk wrapper was tied tightly around her waist. Her lips twisted into a predatory smile. ‘I have you now, Millicent.’

Millie learned much of suffering and humiliation in the two weeks following her evening at Philippa’s. When she looked at her reflection in the glass, she almost didn’t recognise the woman staring back.

Patricia’s treatment of Millie had shifted from mild bullying to unbridled abuse the moment Millie snuck back into the kitchen. She hadn’t realised her father’s efforts to protect her against Patricia’s punishments until Marquess Whittenburg ceased shielding his daughter from his wife’s retribution. And Patricia took to the task of disciplining Millie with relish.

Stretching carefully, Millie’s broken skin pulled as fresh blood welled in the deep wounds covering her back.

She had never been whipped before, but Patricia made sure to remedy that lack in her education the morning after she caught her sneaking back into the kitchen. For a delicate woman, Patricia wielded the whip with devastating accuracy, not stopping until Millie had passed out from the pain. But even the beckoning blackness would never erase the sensation of warm blood dripping down her side and growing cool or the fiery brand of the whip as it cracked through the air.

What was worse than the lightning strikes on her back was knowing she couldn’t fight back. For now, Patricia held all the cards. Her threat of exposing Millie and Philippa to the censure and punishment of the beau monde was a blade pressed against Millie’s throat. Despite her skills, despite knowing she could easily best her stepmother, Millie had to endure Patricia’s wrath or face even greater retribution. It added a unique layer of humiliation to her punishment. So, she rebelled the only way she could. Refusing to cry out. Her stubbornness increased her stepmother’s rage, causing the woman to break a sweat from her exertions. Just the scent of Patricia’s overpowering lily perfume was enough to make Millie gag.

Millie spent several days after the first whipping on her belly as her back scabbed over. Patricia only allowed her water, broth, and a few crusts of bread. She claimed the diet was restorative and would also aid Millie in attaining a more pleasing figure prior to the wedding.

As soon as Millie was able to stand without her vision spotting, she renewed her training, letting her futile anger fuel her. Obviously, she couldn’t grapple alone in her room, but she could continue with the exercises Philippa assigned to strengthen her already athletic body. She focused on slowing her movements, concentrating on the fighting forms Philippa had taught her, ignoring the burn of her wounds as she shifted and twisted her body.

She set up the grate of her fireplace as a practice throwing range for her knives, using pillows and a few books as her target. Her accuracy improved daily. She could hit a fly from the distance of one side of her room to the other, and the satisfaction she felt dulled the pain of her stepmother’s punishments.

Lack of proper food made it difficult, but Millie refused to stop. Her poor maid tried to sneak Millie a plate from dinner on the fourth day, but one of the servants loyal to Patricia caught her. Patricia threatened to sack the girl with no references if she ever disobeyed her again. And Millie received another whipping for coercing her maid into such devious acts. The second session was even more horrific than the first as barely healed wounds broke open anew. She would likely carry scars.

‘Something you’ll have in common with your new husband.’ Patricia sneered as the whip whistled through the air, cracking against Millie’s back.

What bothered Millie most about the brutal second whipping was the interruption her new lashes caused for her training sessions. Three more days lost while she waited for her wounds to close.

She would survive this ordeal. She would heal. And grow stronger. And destroy her stepmother. She just needed to endure long enough to stand at the altar.

Two weeks passed while Millie spent her days alone in her room training and her nights collapsing into exhausted sleep. Her father didn’t visit her once. She only saw Patricia on the two occasions her stepmother administered her discipline.

Now, the wedding was only five days away, and they were scheduled to depart for Major General Drake’s expansive estate in Bedfordshire directly after breakfast, though Millie was only allowed burnt toast and weak tea.

It would be impossible for Patricia to continue with her diabolical behaviour once they were settled at Alder House. The only benefit Millie could see in marrying Major General Drake was freedom from her stepmother forever. She was also unlikely to see her father. That hurt more than she could describe. Although his love for Millie had been lost, she still missed him fiercely.

Millie bit her lip, refusing to let the tears slip free. She was desperate for comfort and comradery. She had been denied access to Lady Philippa and Ivy over the past two weeks and longed for their support. The only thing keeping her hopes from shrivelling to dust were her daily training sessions.

Patricia swept into her room at half past seven. She glanced around, a smile playing over her lips at the various cases packed and ready to be loaded onto carriages.

‘You best make sure everything is ready before we leave. You are no longer welcome here and won’t be returning to this house ever again, dear Daughter.’

Millie never thought she would be relieved to escape her family home. The house where she learned to walk. Where her father taught her to ride. Where she spun tales with her best friend about the fantastic futures they would share. Futures full of adventure, freedom, and maybe love. But her home had turned into a prison. Her father was a stranger to her now, and her stepmother achieved her goal of ousting Millie and claiming her place as ruler of the Whittenburg legacy.

Patricia could fall from the heights of her aspirations and splat onto the dirt for all Millie cared. But she mourned the loss of her father’s affections. If love so easily turned a trusted parent from his beloved daughter, then Millie was grateful she need never concern herself with the emotion. Patricia’s punishments had hollowed out anything soft or weak within Millie. Major General Drake certainly wouldn’t show her anything close to affection. Which was perfectly fine.

She only hoped his hatred of her would ensure a distant marriage where she could live her life free of anyone’s demands but her own – and the Queen’s, of course. She had spent much of her dreadful confinement contemplating how to continue working with Philippa while being married to the Earl of Tetly. If she couldn’t convince him to beg off the marriage, at least a distant union would provide her with much-needed privacy to continue her important work.

Drake would want nothing to do with her, so it would be easy to recommend they live separately. The plan would suit him down to his stupid shiny shoes. Once this wedding was complete, she would live in his London residence and return to her training with Lady Philippa. Millie was determined to hone herself into a weapon of cold steel. Something that couldn’t be broken with a whip. Something that didn’t long for affection. Or kindness. Or affirmation. Because she would find nothing gentle in her new husband. A man who despised her. A man who would forever be a stranger.

A man whose kisses make me melt.

Madness. A moment never to be repeated. Millie had learned her lesson well with Franklin St George. Where her body led, her heart soon followed. And allowing her heart to become involved with the cold, cruel, dangerous Earl of Tetly was foolishness of the highest order. Millie was no man’s fool. Certainly not Major General Beaufort Drake’s.