One Night of Scandal

by Darcy Burke

  Pushing him from her thoughts, she scanned the interior of the coffeehouse. There were four corner tables. Which one was Hodges? Mr. Barrett hadn’t described him, so Viola would just have to wait.

  And yet, she didn’t want to stand here and loiter. Two of the four corner tables were occupied. One held a trio of older men who were engaged in animated conversation, one of them gesturing wildly. The other table held a single man, perhaps in his late fifties, with a shock of white hair. His head was bent toward the newspaper spread in front of him across the table.

  “Hodges, you need a refill?” the man at the bar called over to the single gentleman.

  Hodges, apparently, looked up from his newspaper and flashed a smile. He pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Yes, please.”

  Viola strode toward his table. “I’ll get it for you.”

  Blinking up at her from behind his glasses, Hodges inclined his head. “Why, thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” Viola smiled, keeping her lips thin and closed, then picked up his cup and went to the counter.

  “Put his on my account,” Hodges called.

  The coffee master refilled Hodges’s cup and then filled another for Viola. She picked up both with a nod and returned to Hodges’s table.

  “I hope you’ll sit with me,” Hodges said as he folded the newspaper and set it to the side.

  Viola glanced toward the door. She was supposed to wait for Jack, but he was now running late. Surely he would understand that she couldn’t pass up this opportunity. “Thank you. I’m meeting someone.”

  Hodges smiled pleasantly. “He’s welcome to join us when he arrives.” He sipped his coffee and closed his eyes while he let out a satisfied sigh. “Nothing like a fresh cup.”

  While Viola had learned to like a variety of ales over the past two years, she hadn’t ever tried coffee. She took a tentative sip of the dark, steaming brew and nearly sputtered. Forcing the sour liquid down her throat, she worked to hide her reaction.

  However, she must not have been entirely successful, as Hodges chuckled. “It’s a tad on the bitter side today.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, setting the cup down. “I’m Tavistock, by the bye.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Name’s Emory Hodges, solicitor by trade.”

  “I’m a writer,” she said, removing her hat and setting it on the bench beside her.

  Hodges tipped his head to the side and regarded her, his dark eyes contemplative behind his spectacles. “The Tavistock who writes the gentlemen’s column for the Ladies’ Gazette?”

  Her jaw dipped in brief surprise before she snapped her mouth closed and blinked at him. “You read it?”

  He chuckled again, and given the lines fanning from his eyes and the deep grooves on either side of his mouth, she gathered he did so often. “I read all sort of things. Can’t be too informed. I pride myself on reading and learning as much as I can.”

  “An admirable endeavor,” Viola said in earnest. “What were you reading today?” She glanced toward the newspaper.

  He waved his hand at the Times. “Yet another article about the current disaster in the country, and how the radical workers must be kept in line lest they start another riot.”

  “You disagree?”

  “I think it’s dangerous to agitate people where there is already plenty of discord. But people like to read that sort of thing—more and more, it seems.”

  “Yes. I find myself writing pieces to do with the current state of affairs.”

  One of Hodges’s bushy white brows rose up above the edge of his glasses. “Not just who was seen where and what they were wearing?”

  Viola tamped down her frustration—she didn’t think he was looking down on her. “I am interested in political issues as they affect my readers.”

  “Yes, it affects us all, whether we pay attention or not. Well, you’ve come to the right place to hear about politics.” He looked toward the opposite corner, where the three men were still enthusiastically conversing. “Just look at them. They’re here every afternoon debating the same things over and over.” He shook his head. “Retired MPs with nothing better to do.” He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. “Not that I have anything better to do! I like to come and keep my ears open. Still have excellent hearing.” He tapped the side of his head as he sat back once more, his shoulders disturbing the drape.

  Viola glanced toward the door. Jack was rather late now, and she wasn’t sure there would be a better opening. She pinned Hodges with a shrewd stare. “Actually, I heard a rumor recently. Perhaps you know something about it. Involves an MP who helped the radicals with something.”

  The way Hodges’s eyes lit and color infused his ruddy cheeks, Viola knew she’d found success. He leaned forward again, farther this time, and lowered his voice. Despite the decrease in volume, his excitement was evident. “Oh, I know precisely what you’re speaking of. An MP instigated the attack on Prinny back in January.”

  Viola also pitched forward, her pulse thrumming. “Instigated? What do you mean?” They hadn’t caught whoever had fired at his coach or thrown rocks or whatever they had done to break the window.

  “Apparently, he organized it,” Hodges said. “Told the radicals when to attack. They were ready and waiting when the prince left Westminster.”

  “So it wasn’t just a random attack by disgruntled workers?” That was one theory Viola had heard.

  Hodges shook his head slowly. “It seems it wasn’t, but I’m not sure anyone knows for sure.”

  “You don’t know who this MP is?” She held her breath, hoping he would.

  “I’m afraid I don’t, but if you find out, that’ll be a story to print for sure!” He said this with such glee that Viola smiled as she imagined it. It would be incredible to publish this and could entirely change her career. Perhaps she could even write it under her real name. For a brief moment, she lost herself in the excitement of possibility.

  “Are you going to include this in your column?” Hodges asked, sitting back. “I ask that you don’t mention me. I don’t want to be swept up in anything to do with anything radical.” He shuddered. “Too easy to get thrown in prison right now for anything at all for who knows how long!”

  He was absolutely right. It was as if he’d doused her in ice-cold water from the Thames. She nodded soberly. She could write this—as gossip—in her column, though she wasn’t sure what her editor would say.

  No, she couldn’t do it. Hodges was right that it was dangerous, but that was because it was unsubstantiated. She needed proof. And she needed to discover the identity of the MP.

  “I can’t write this sort of gossip,” she said with a twinge of regret. “It’s a fascinating story—or it would be if I had more information, such as the identity of the MP. Is there anything else you could tell me that might lead me to him?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t even tell you who I heard it from, but it was here.” He frowned and stared into his coffee cup for a moment. “I think.” Shrugging, he sipped his coffee. “Can’t say for sure.”

  Well, that wasn’t helpful. Still, she now knew what the MP had done to help the radicals. And it was far more shocking than she’d imagined. To think that someone in Parliament had encouraged an attack on the Prince Regent was terrifying. “Makes me think of Spencer Perceval,” she said softly, referring to the prime minister who’d been assassinated by an aggrieved merchant five years ago.

  Hodges nodded sadly. “Hard not to draw a comparison. We must all be on our guard. Perhaps the newspaper articles aren’t a bad thing.” He glanced over at the newspaper on the table before looking back at her. “I hope you’re able to find the truth. We deserve to know who would provoke such a thing. If he did it once, what might he do next?”

  A shiver dashed down Viola’s spine. “Indeed.” She picked up her cup and took another tentative sip of the coffee. Though it had cooled, it was not any more palatable. She choked it down and decided that was all she could do. And where the devil was Barrett? />
  Swinging her head toward the door once more, she saw him enter. She didn’t want to tell him about this in front of Hodges. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, rising.

  “Aren’t you meeting someone?” he asked, looking up at her.

  “Yes, he’s just arrived, but we’re off to another appointment. I do thank you for the company, and hope I’ll see you soon.”

  “I’d like that,” he said, smiling.

  She swept up her hat and set it on her head before pivoting and striding toward Barrett. His dark eyes flickered with recognition, then he frowned.

  “Were you just sitting with Hodges?”

  She nodded. “Let’s go.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll tell you all about it outside.” She moved past him and pushed open the door, stepping out into the gray sunlight. Thin, high clouds blocked the sun, but it was still bright. She pulled the brim of her hat lower as she started along St. James’s.

  Barrett fell into step beside her. “You were supposed to wait for me.”

  She shot him an apologetic glance. “I did try, but you were late. I had an opportunity to sit with Hodges, so I took it.”

  “I still say you should have waited.” He pressed his lips together in dismay.

  “Even though I learned what this MP did, and it’s quite awful?”

  Barrett stopped and moved closer to the corner of a building, away from the center of the pavement. “What did you learn?” His question was low and urgent, full of the anticipation she’d felt a short while ago.

  “Hodges said this MP organized the attack on the Prince Regent.”

  Barrett drew in a sharp breath, his eyes narrowing with alarm. “That’s madness.”

  “One would think.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Hodges didn’t know, unfortunately, but the man told the radicals where to be and when.”

  Barrett pivoted and leaned back against the stone, his shoulders dipping. “This MP could do it again.”

  “He could, but perhaps he sees the danger in it and won’t.”

  “I should hope so. That event made an already tense atmosphere even more strained. Look at all that’s come of it—a secret committee, the suspension of habeas corpus, the resurrection of a Seditious Meetings Act. For someone trying to hinder the radicals, it worked rather well.”

  She could see that perspective as well as another. “Or maybe it was just someone who wanted to assassinate the prince.”

  “Well, they failed spectacularly at that, didn’t they?” he said wryly. “Whatever their motive, they made a hell of an impact.” He looked at her. “Pardon me. For a brief moment there, I forgot who you really are.”

  She’d thought that had become more difficult for him—not seeing her as a woman. To find it hadn’t was disappointing, and she didn’t want to think about why that was. “I’m Tavistock. At least for right now.”

  “You’re bloody brilliant, that’s for certain. I can’t believe you managed to learn that from Hodges in less than thirty minutes.”

  “It was about thirty minutes. I think.” She hadn’t been watching the clock. Barrett’s praise warmed her.

  Barrett pushed away from the wall and started walking again. She moved alongside him.

  “I’m sorry I was late. I was delayed at a meeting,” he said. “I’m trying to think of who might have done this. Granted, I don’t know every single MP, at least not closely, but that one of them would take this risk is very concerning.”

  “But not hard to believe, I imagine.”

  He slid her a glance as they walked. “What do you mean?”

  “So many of them are corrupt—rotten boroughs, or they’re serving in a seat that’s been paid for by someone in the Lords,” she said. “They’d have to feel beholden to behave in a certain way.”

  His mouth ticked up in a half smile that made her breath hitch. “You’re quite clever. Yes, I shouldn’t find this hard to believe. I suppose it’s just that I don’t want to believe it. I always hope people are better than what others might think them capable of, that we ultimately comport ourselves with decency and honor.”

  She could see that he did. His passion for his beliefs was evident. And inspiring. “I’d like to find out who this MP is—people deserve to know about this potential threat.”

  “In case he does it again, you mean.” Barrett shook his head. “Yes, people deserve to know, just as they deserve proper representation so that they are heard. The way we allow people to vote—or not vote—is absolutely maddening.” He spoke with considerable vitriol, and again his enthusiasm was palpable.

  “I couldn’t agree more. That women aren’t allowed to vote or even own property, which would allow them to vote, is appalling. And yes, I realize a few women do, in fact, own property and vote, but they are by far a minority.”

  “So miniscule as to not even count,” he said. “While I appreciate your zeal and do agree, I unfortunately think women’s suffrage is a ways off yet.” He winced as he apologized. “If we can get to universal male suffrage, that would be an important first step.”

  Logically, she understood the reality of what he was saying, but it was still frustrating. “I would argue we should move to universal suffrage period. Women have next to no rights at present, even fewer when they marry and give over what modicum of independence they might have to their husbands.”

  “Is that why you aren’t married?” The question was soft and uttered with more than a trace of curiosity. She could ignore it, but she didn’t.

  “Yes.” They’d reached Piccadilly, and she stopped, intending to catch a hack. “And why aren’t you married?”

  His dark eyes glimmered beneath the brim of his hat. “Because I don’t want to be. Not yet, anyway. I’ve too much to do right now.”

  She could see that. “You’re married to the House of Commons.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps. Now, what is our next move?”

  “To learn the identity of this MP so we can stop him from causing further harm.”

  “Agreed, but how to do this…” He pursed his lips as he gazed out at the busy thoroughfare. “I need to think on it. Will I see you at the Wicked Duke later?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t risk too many nights there.”

  “Then where else will you be?” He peered at her expectantly, and she could almost imagine he wanted her to be somewhere so he could see her socially. But that was preposterous. Neither of them were interested in such a connection.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll have to consult my grandmother’s calendar.” She hesitated a bare moment before saying, “I don’t often go out with her. I don’t particularly enjoy Society.”

  He nodded sharply. “Another thing we have in common. All right, then, I’ll consider our next move—as will you. Why not send me a note as to where we can meet?”

  “I’ll do that.”

  She looked out at the street. “I just need a hack.”

  “Allow me.” He hailed one, laughing as he shook his head. “I really have to stop thinking of you as a woman.”

  The disappointment she’d felt earlier evaporated in a wave of heat. She gave the driver her direction, then turned to Barrett. “Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  She didn’t dare look at him again as she climbed into the vehicle. She also didn’t dare think about what she’d just admitted out loud.

  Chapter 6

  Walking into the house in which Jack had grown up with his loving parents always felt like being wrapped in a warm hug. Tonight was no different as he handed his hat to his father’s butler. “How are you, Michaelson?” Jack asked.

  The tall Norseman inclined his still-blond head. “Quite well, thank you. Your father is delighted you’ve come for dinner tonight.”

  After thinking it had been too long since he’d visited, Jack had dispatched a note. “Please tell me Mrs. Fink has made lamb.” Her recipe was Jack’s favorite.

  Michaelson’s mouth lifted in a smile. “O
f course.”

  Jack walked through the entrance hall into his father’s library. The feeling of home intensified in this room, where he’d spent so much time with his father reading, learning, and just watching the man he admired most in the world.

  His father looked up from his desk, his dark blue eyes peering at Jack over the tops of his half-moon glasses. “Jack, my boy.” He took the spectacles off and set them atop the sheaf of papers he was reading, then stood. For a man nearing seventy, he didn’t look a day over sixty, and he had the movement and activity level of someone who was probably fifty. Jack could only hope to age as well as him and his father before him, who had just died five years ago at the venerable age of ninety-nine years.

  “Good evening, Father. It’s good to see you.”

  Father came around the desk and embraced Jack tightly for a moment. Jack felt like a boy of five again with the smell of ink and his father’s sandalwood soap crowding his senses. “Good to see you too.”

  They parted, and Father gestured for him to sit in one of the wingback chairs angled before the hearth, where a low fire burned on this cool April evening. As Jack took his usual chair, Father went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of his favorite whisky, which he procured every fall when he traveled to Scotland to hunt.

  A moment later, his father handed him a glass and sat opposite him. They both raised their whisky in silent toast before taking simultaneous sips. How many times had they done precisely this? Far too many to count, and Jack hoped there would still be far more than he could imagine.

  “You’ve been busy since Parliament opened,” Father said over the rim of his glass.

  Jack winced inwardly. “Yes, sorry I haven’t been to visit.”

  His father waved his hand. “I don’t care about that. With everything going on, I can well imagine how overwhelming it’s all been. The riots last fall, the attack on the Prince Regent, the march from Manchester… That’s a great deal to manage in the best of times.”