“A scheme? Perpetuated by Miss Brighton?” Had she unknowingly offended the girl somehow? Unlikely, since Jessica was new to London and, until last night, had never laid eyes on the dark-haired vixen.
“Yes, and Lord Brookmoore. We believe they eloped last night, for no one has seen them since they disappeared from the ball. It was some time before anyone noticed their absences. To throw the scent off their disgraceful intentions, the despicable rotters, they arranged for you and the duke to be found in a very indecent situation.”
Jessica absently scratched her jaw, still uncertain why her sister was in such a dither. It wasn’t like Theadosia in the least. “So…they created a scene to draw attention away from their clandestine disappearance?” Rather extreme and not just a little addled. “Why did they choose the duke and me?”
Pausing, Theadosia distractedly straightened her lace cuff. Instead of answering Jessica’s question, she said, “You do know Miss Brighton and Bainbridge are—were—betrothed, don’t you? Arrangements were made when they were children. She was an infant, I believe.”
Atrocious practice, that. Marriages of convenience and arranged marriages between adults were awful enough.
“No, I wasn’t aware.” Something akin to envy speared Jessica, but before she could examine the irregular emotion further, she forced herself to focus on the matter at hand. “But, be that as it may, the duke wasn’t in the hothouse.”
Had the whole lemonade episode been a farce, as well? Jessica suspected she already knew that ugly truth. Miss Brighton had probably been in cahoots with the other girls who’d been so unkind. She’d been play-acting. That was why her high-spirits had seemed somewhat affected.
“He was there. He arrived after you succumbed to the sleeping draught. We’ve puzzled the pieces together as best we can.” Theadosia shifted, pulling one leg higher on the mattress, her lavender skirts rippling with the movement and thrusting her rounded belly forward. “After drugging you, Miss Brighton somehow lured you to the conservatory.”
“She said there were puppies there, and she was to have one. I thought perhaps I might have one as well.” The devious, lying chit. Just wait until she had Miss Brighton alone. Her ears would ring for a month. Jessica might even slap her pretty face.
Hard.
“Ah.” Understanding dawned in her sister’s compassionate, brown-eyed gaze. “We did wonder since you have a level head on your shoulders, and we couldn’t imagine you would rashly go off with her.”
Why shouldn’t she have trusted Miss Brighton? After all, she wasn’t a thief or a woman of ill repute. Nothing of the sort. She’d been cheerful and friendly. A consummate actress.
“What happened after I lost consciousness?” It was worrisome that she had no recollection of anything between plopping onto the divan and waking up in her bed a few minutes ago.
Theadosia touched a finger to her chin, her eyes narrowed in concentration. “It’s a bit garbled, but we’ve gleaned the duke was lured to the hothouse as well. Under the pretense of assisting Lord Brookmoore with his drunken brother. Radcliffe wasn’t there, of course.”
This entire scenario was as calamitous as a Drury Lane tragedy. Jessica would laugh if it weren’t so disturbing. It didn’t say much about her or Bainbridge that they were so gullible, either.
“His grace found you drugged on the divan and at once surmised foul play was afoot when he couldn’t rouse you,” Theadosia said, her manner hesitant and subdued. “Someone struck him in the back of the head with a brass candlestick, and when he awoke—”
“My God!” Jessica stiffened, anger rippling over her. “He might’ve been killed!”
Lips parted and rapidly blinking as if to stave off tears, Theadosia seemed unable to go on.
Jessica was afraid to ask how Crispin fared. What wasn’t her sister telling her?
She scooted higher against the pillows, her stomach pitching worse than a skiff in a tropical hurricane. “Is Cris—that is, is the duke all right?”
Theadosia slowly nodded, though none of the tension left her face. “He will be. He required several stitches and suffered a concussion. The physician has ordered bed rest for a week. We’ve no doubt he speaks the truth about what he remembers.”
Quite right. What man whacks himself on the back of the head so he can be found with a woman, even if he is a rake?
“I was drugged, and he was clobbered. Why? None of this makes any sense, and it certainly paints Miss Brighton and Lord Brookmoore as villains of the worst caliber.” If Lilith were a man, she’d call her out, the wretch. How dare they conspire to ruin her and Crispin?
“They are, indeed.” Theadosia nodded vehemently. “We’re convinced—Victor, Bainbridge, and I—they acted so that Miss Brighton and Lord Brookmoore might elope. You and the duke were to be a distraction.”
“There are easier ways to break a betrothal.” Jessica released a contemptuous snort, her opinion of the bubbly Miss Brighton having descended to somewhere below a maggot in chicken manure. “I have decided I do not like Miss Brighton or Viscount Brookmoore in the least.”
“Neither do I.” The faintest smile curved Theadosia’s lips, though no humor lit her eyes. “They are utterly despicable, and their part in this debacle will not go unpunished. However…” Her tone changed, and she cinched her mouth tight.
Another wave of alarm engulfed Jessica, and she flashed cold. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Oh, darling.” Droplets slipped from the corners of Theadosia’s eyes. “Those monsters undressed you and Bainbridge and placed you in a suggestive position atop the divan. A half dozen guests found you together.”
Undressed? Suggestive? Found by guests?
Oh God. Oh God, oh God!
Time stretched out, lengthening impossibly with disbelief and denial as Jessica sought to comprehend what her sister had said, the absolutely desolating consequences of what she’d disclosed.
Only the bedside clock’s ticking punctuated the solemn silence.
“Thea, you’re saying we were found naked? Together?” Damn them.
Humiliation blazed fiery heat up her cheeks.
Could a person perish from mortification?
No, but they could certainly want to.
Theadosia nodded, looking utterly miserable.
“And others saw us?” Jessica whispered, hands pressed to her flaming face.
No. No. No.
Her tummy toppled so violently that she feared she’d be sick all over her counterpane.
How could Lord Brookmoore and Miss Brighton have been so calculatingly malicious? Vile? Evil?
Scorching tears borne of chagrin, rage, and frustration sprang to her eyes. She’d do a great deal more than slap Lilith Brighton and the Lord Brookmoore when next she looked upon their despicable persons.
“Bainbridge managed to reach your gown and cover the essential parts of you both before the other guests barged in. Even injured and bleeding—barely conscious, the witnesses claim— he valiantly tried to protect you,” her sister said, her voice tremulous with suppressed emotion.
Crispin had tried to preserve her modesty.
A little flicker of something undefinable fluttered behind Jessica’s ribs. Perchance he wasn’t the knave she’d believed him to be.
More likely, he didn’t want a crowd viewing his man bits.
A flush swept her to think she’d been in his arms, naked, and assuredly, he’d seen her…bits. Felt her body, too. God save me. Jessica made a strangled sound, deep in her throat, which very much tried to become a moan. She’d never be able to look him in the face again. Never.
Theadosia withdrew a handkerchief from her bodice and patted her damp face. “Randolph Radcliffe was amongst the guests to discover you and the duke. We’ve no doubt he conspired with his dastardly brother. Though, as expected, he pleads absolute ignorance.”
Devil take him. And the bubbly, black-hearted Miss Brighton, too.
Her sister’s expression became steel-hard, and a fli
ntiness entered her usually warm, chocolaty gaze. “Victor assures me he has the means to extract the truth from Radcliffe.”
“God forgive me, but I sincerely hope it involves a degree of torture.” Jessica emphasized her words with a vicious thwack to a pillow, which had the unfortunate fate of being nearby. “Tar and feathers or thumb screws, at the very least, the bloody bastard.”
A raspy laugh escaped Theadosia, and she didn’t even chide Jessica about her foul language. “No, nothing so medieval, more’s the pity. Victor is buying all of his vowels and ensuring no one extends him credit. He’ll be in no position to deny Victor anything.”
Jessica fisted her hands in the sheets, her breath coming in shallow rasps. “What’s to be done? I’m ruined,” she whispered, bile’s acrid burn stinging her throat.
Ruined? No, it was much worse than that. Despite her innocence, she’d be branded a whore. She’d have to leave London straightaway. Today, perhaps. And now, because of those selfish blighters, she’d probably never marry. What man would take a woman to wife who was found naked in public in another man’s arms?
A scourge of stinging tears flooded her eyes again, and she shoved a fist to her mouth to stifle the cry of denial, throttling up her throat.
“The scandal will destroy you and Victor, too,” she choked out.
“Victor and I are not concerned about any of that. We’ll survive this storm, perhaps a little weather-beaten but not destroyed.” Theadosia tenderly smoothed the hair away from Jessica’s face, her closed-lip smile apologetic. “You and Bainbridge will wed. There’s nothing else for it, my dear.” Laced with sympathy and compassion, her sister’s voice also held uncompromising authority.
Wed Crispin? A rake and a roué?
A man who could no more be faithful to one woman than fruit trees could retain their foliage in wintertime or snow could fall upward? No. There must be another solution. There must be. Marriage to him would guarantee a broken heart and a lifetime of unhappiness.
“I don’t want to marry him, Theadosia. I scarcely know the duke.” She heard the pleading in her voice but didn’t care. She couldn’t wed a virtual stranger. “I’m confident Bainbridge doesn’t want this either.”
For all she knew, he lamented his broken betrothal with Miss Brighton. Or, if he didn’t, he’d not be eager to enter into a marriage of convenience when he’d just escaped an arranged marriage.
Jessica was no fool. She knew how womanizers of his ilk behaved: They married, beget an heir or two on their wives, then bustled their inconvenient spouses off to the country so the rogue could carry on, unhindered, with his string of mistresses and lovers.
“I’m truly sorry, but you must, Jessica. It’s the only way to preserve his name and your reputation.”
Rakehells don’t have any honor.
“The nuptials were Bainbridge’s suggestion,” Theadosia went on, either unmindful of Jessica’s mutinous scowl or choosing to ignore it. Likely the latter. “He is an honorable man and, from what Victor has told me, kind, too.” She touched two fingertips to the bridge of her nose as if her head also pained her. “James intends to procure a special license on your behalf today, should it be required. I prefer the banns be put up, but that might not be possible.”
Both notions rather galled.
Heavens, why not just hie off to Gretna Green? Do things up brown? Why, the only tidbit that might make this on dit juicier was if she were already increasing. Oh God. She could taste the bitterness of fresh bile in her mouth. People would likely believe she was pregnant, too.
Their brother, James, was a highly sought-after solicitor and, of late, a successful investor. A keener, more intelligent mind, Jessica had never encountered. Perhaps he might have an alternative solution.
Say, an extended holiday to France or Italy? For a decade. No, better make that two decades. Wouldn’t do to rush home before le beau monde’s exasperatingly long memory had faded.
“Victor, as well as the Dukes of Dandridge, Sheffield, and Pennington, are already spreading their own tattle,” Theadosia revealed. “It’s a rather good tale we concocted last night while you slept.”
Jessica slanted an eyebrow up, skeptically. “Just what is this tale?”
Appearing a mite chagrined, her sister pressed her lips tight. She clasped and unclasped her hands before releasing a long sigh, her shoulders slumping.
“We’re saying that Bainbridge recently became aware of Miss Brighton’s affair with Brookmoore. He formally intended to break their betrothal on the grounds of infidelity. We’re also spreading it about that the duke once confessed to Victor that, if he were a free man, he’d ask for your hand,” she said, her voice slightly raspy. “We’ll let people think they’re clever and put two and two together.”
Jessica shook her head and made a harsh movement in the air with her hands. “And you think anyone with a brain larger than a grape is going to believe that twaddledash?” She was forever mixing up her expressions, but right now, she didn’t give a fig.
She fisted her hands, curled her toes, and clamped her teeth until they were in danger of cracking, so overwhelming was her fury.
Jessica resisted the impulse to thump the undeserving pillow again. But something—no, somebody—needed to be throttled. Make that two somebodies. “I wouldn’t believe that fustian rubbish if I heard it. It sounds exactly like what it is. A monumental tarradiddle, confabulated to detract gossip. It won’t work.”
“The haut ton may not believe it, but given the rank of the peers insisting it’s the truth, they won’t dare imply otherwise.” A note of satisfaction threaded Theadosia’s voice. Apparently, she was learning just how advantageous it was to be a duchess.
It seemed everything had been decided while Jessica slept. Her life and future had been mapped out without a word of input or consent from her. A twinge of anger sliced through her.
Yet, in her core, she grudgingly acknowledged her sister spoke the truth. Her only hope of salvaging anything from this scandal was a prompt marriage. And marrying a duke, particularly the duke in question, was even better.
Miss Brighton and Brookmoore deserved one another. God rot the wretches. May they be miserable every day of the rest of their despicable lives.
“Brookmoore had better watch himself if he ever dares to return to London. James or Victor might very well call him out.” After tucking her handkerchief back into her bosom, Theadosia rose. She ran her palms over her tummy, a gentle smile framing her mouth.
She’d make an exceptional mother.
“If Bainbridge doesn’t first,” Jessica muttered sourly, convinced Crispin wouldn’t turn a blind eye to the destruction of his honor and good name. Or for being compelled into the marriage trap.
Except James, Victor, or Crispin shouldn’t have to jeopardize their lives on a field of honor with a soulless scoundrel such as Brookmoore.
“Come, my dear.” Theadosia held out her hand. “Let’s see you dressed to call upon your soon-to-be betrothed. I think you should wear something colorful. That new ice-blue gown and spencer will do. They fairly shout nobility to anyone who might see you. And we want to ensure the gossips don’t find you lacking in any way.”
Dear Theadosia. Surely she knew they would, in any event. Jessica would be dissected from toe to top. Every glance, every word, judged.
“But the duke is confined to his bed.” If she met with Crispin today, this horror would become a reality. “I believe it would be wiser to wait until he’s recovered.”
That would give her time to contrive another solution.
“He’s able to converse just fine, and he insisted your betrothal be made public today. We can’t very well do that unless he asks you, now, can we?” Theadosia’s false smile slipped a trifle.
Feeling mutinous and altogether cross, Jessica tossed the bedcovers back, snapping, “Don’t be so very sure I’ll agree to this farce.”
Stifling a foul oath, Crispin sat perfectly still as his valet, Marsters, finished fussing over
his hair, mindful not to bump the fresh bandage encircling his head.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to brush the top, Marsters, when this confines the rest of my hair.” He waved two fingers at the linen strips. “I’ll look ridiculous, despite your diligent efforts.”
The valet spared him a brief look, his brows quirked in a mixture of annoyance and amusement. Though a foot shorter and at least two stones lighter, Marsters inevitably made him feel like a recalcitrant schoolboy.
“You’re meeting with your betrothed, Your Grace,” he explained with the patience one would address a gravely ill or mentally deficit individual.
Not betrothed yet. But before the day was out, Jessica Brentwood would be the future Duchess of Bainbridge. Pleasurable warmth swirled outward from Crispin’s middle until it engulfed him like a cocoon.
“I cannot,” Marsters went on, “in good conscience, permit you to leave this room unless you are at your very best.”
Yes, someone might judge Marsters’s skills deficient if Crispin’s neckcloth wasn’t tied just so. Or if a single speck of lint were spotted upon his fine-cloth burgundy coat. And heaven forbid if a smudge marred his footwear.
The stars might drop from the sky.
He gave one last flourishing swipe of the brush then stood back, inspecting Crispin from his head to his just-polished-to-a-high-gleam Hessians. With a satisfied nod, he declared, “You’ll do.”
“You’re quite certain?” Crispin quipped, unable to keep the drollness from his tone.
Head cocked, Marsters tutted to himself. He stepped forward and flicked a minuscule speck of something invisible from Crispin’s shoulder.
Thank God he’d spotted that; the world might’ve ended, had he not.
Why, Miss Jessica Brentwood might’ve torn from the room, yanking at her hair and screaming at the top of her lungs if she’d spied the speck.
Crispin would’ve shaken his head in amusement, just to fluster Marsters, but his skull still ached bloody awful. After all, it had been less than four and twenty hours since he’d been knocked from behind hard enough to require twelve stitches. An egg-sized lump protruded beneath the bandages.
Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance Page 22