Nothing But Scandal

by Allegra Gray

  “I’m sorry. I know the children liked her.” Striding to the door, he asked, “Did she say where she could be located in the future?”

  “Indeed.” She folded her arms.

  “And?” It took considerable willpower not to throttle his younger sister.

  But Marian wasn’t done with him. “After her father’s death, everyone simply pitied Elizabeth for her new circumstances. When she left home to work as a governess, Society cut her off—or would have, had her whereabouts been known.

  “But it wasn’t until you seduced and then left her that respectable women began dragging their children to the other side of the street rather than be seen with her, Alex.” His sister shot him a look of withering scorn. “Her reputation has been ruined beyond reproach. She has no future.”

  Marian could berate him later to her heart’s content. Now, all he wanted was to find Elizabeth.

  “Mar-i-an.” He enunciated each syllable, his impatience barely contained. “Where did she go?”

  “Home, I believe. That is…if they were willing to have her back.”

  “Right.” He turned and exited through the door his sister had entered only moments ago, leaving her gaping at his unprecedented lack of manners.

  “Groom!” he called as he made for the stables. The same lad he’d met earlier ran up. “Have the phaeton put to and the horses readied. I’m leaving for London immediately.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Aye, my lord.” He hurried off, though Alex thought he heard him mutter “only just put them out,” as the groom went to do his bidding.

  Alex impatiently ground the toe of his highly polished boot into the dirt while he waited. Damn. How had all this happened while he was away? And why hadn’t someone thought to inform him of it?

  His horses neighed in protest as Alex slapped the reins of the hastily readied vehicle. They were tired, but he drove them hard. He knew his young lover had been desperate when she’d left home. He could only imagine how desperate, and betrayed, she must feel to return. And it was his fault, damn it.

  He had an apology to make. Likely one involving jewelry. But he was not willing to let Elizabeth go so easily.

  Guilt pressed down on him as his sister’s words registered. Elizabeth’s reputation was in shreds. It wouldn’t be the first time a female had fallen from Society’s good graces, though he couldn’t recall any who had done it with quite the dramatic flair of his Elizabeth. That thought almost brought a grin to his face, though he doubted she would share his humor.

  In fact, she had every right to be angry with him. His unstable mood soured again as he realized his own role in the young lady’s ruin. He was responsible for more than just seducing her, though she didn’t know it. He’d tried to set things right, but when it came to Elizabeth Medford, he was always one beat out of sync. And since he couldn’t seem to stay away from her, he’d just have to try again.

  After several broken hairpins, Elizabeth decided lock-picking was far more difficult than the heroines of her favorite novels had led her to believe.

  Which meant she’d have to be clever, perhaps trick Harold into believing she’d succumbed. If she could “earn” the freedom to wander the premises, she could plan an escape route, or even find a way to send for help. She had no money. Still, there had to be a way.

  Plotting kept Elizabeth from paying attention to the gnawing hunger growing in her belly. But by the time the evening twilight cloaked the fields, and the luscious smell of roasting beef wafted up the stairs, nothing could turn her attention from her appetite.

  She hadn’t eaten since the night she’d been kidnapped. She wasn’t quite sure how long they’d traveled before reaching their current location, but Harold had told her the betrothal had been signed two nights ago—meaning it had been quite some time since she’d had a real meal.

  Because, during that cozy family dinner, she’d had little appetite, thinking Harold meant to press for an engagement. If only she’d known what was actually coming, she’d have paid more attention to her plate and less to her potion-laden wine.

  When the light outside dimmed further, and still Harold had not revisited her, Elizabeth resorted to pounding on the door. She would need energy, a clear head, for what she’d planned for tomorrow. That meant a meal tonight, and right now her bloody captor was keeper of the kitchen.

  She heard his footsteps with a mixture of relief, anger, and fear.

  The door opened partially—enough for her to see him, and see that his girth blocked any chance of rushing past him. She was certain that was intentional.

  “Yes?” he asked curiously, as though he’d no idea what she might want.

  Bloody cur. She hated him for making her beg.

  “I thought perhaps you meant to share your evening meal with your fiancée.” She referred to their union with all the sincerity she could muster, though the thought of sharing anything with Harold nearly made her gag.

  In truth, she didn’t plan to be around long enough for the reference to matter.

  “Dear me, I must have forgotten,” Harold said. “Though your behavior this morning hardly led me to believe you would be amenable. Perhaps you’d care to apologize for that?”

  She hated him even more. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience I caused.”

  He gave her a satisfied and knowing smile. “Still, I think it’s best if you stay up here a while longer. I’ll bring up a tray.”

  Fine. She didn’t care where she ate the meal, so long as it consisted of food. Of course, he was also denying her the opportunity to explore her prison.

  He returned, bearing a small tray. “Since I have already eaten, I shall simply keep you company.” He passed the tray to her, then seated himself in the room’s most comfortable chair.

  When Elizabeth saw how little food he’d allotted her, she wanted to cry. Only pride kept her tears at bay.

  “I’ve heard it said you ladies have delicate appetites, so I hope this won’t be too heavy for you, my dear.”

  The tiny amount of beef and bread wouldn’t have been too heavy for a sparrow. It was enough to whet, not satisfy, an appetite.

  Elizabeth gave him a smile as though everything was just perfect, and proceeded to eat as primly as possible, in spite of the desire to gulp it down and plead for more.

  Harold watched through narrowed eyes. The moment she was done, he stood and retrieved the tray.

  “I trust you’ll have a good night’s sleep, dear Elizabeth. Mayhap tomorrow we can continue this improvement in our acquaintance.”

  “Mayhap.” She smiled through clenched teeth. When she escaped—and she would escape—she needed a place to go. The Duke of Beaufort was a rake who’d broken her heart, but she felt certain if he knew her dire straits, he’d not deny her his protection. Whatever it took, she had to get a message to Alex.

  The duke’s horses were lathered and dragging their hooves by the time he arrived at No. 9 Milton Road. Between the trip to his sister’s, and then to London, not to mention Ramsgate and Dorset, Alex wasn’t looking his best either as he launched himself from the phaeton and up the steps of the Medford residence.

  A butler in faded livery showed him in, and Alex stalked impatiently as he waited for the sight of the woman he’d so missed. But the person who greeted him no more resembled Elizabeth than a street pebble resembled a ruby.

  “Your Grace, an unexpected pleasure.”

  Alex was not in the mood. “Who are you?”

  “George Gorsham, Lady Medford’s brother, Your Grace.”

  Ah. The “Uncle George” Elizabeth had referred to so disdainfully.

  “Where is Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth’s uncle didn’t quite meet his eye. “I’m afraid she’s not here.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not here’?” Alex felt like an echo. Where the bloody hell was she?

  “My niece has retired to the country for the time being. I’m afraid she found city life a bit much.”

  God’s teeth, the man was unhelpf
ul. “Where in the country, exactly? I want an address.”

  George rubbed his palms on his pants, then clasped them nervously. “I cannot tell you, Your Grace.”

  “Can’t—or won’t?” Alex asked, his tone ominous.

  “Can’t. I am sorry. But perhaps, if you’ve business with Miss Medford, I might be able to get a message to her.”

  Alex took a step closer to give the other man the full effect of his height. “How, Mr. Gorsham, do you intend to get a message to Elizabeth if you do not know her address?”

  “I—I don’t know it, I swear,” George said, now wringing his hands. “But I know someone who would, and if I hear from him, I could relay the message.”

  “There’s no need of that. My business with her is my own. Who is this person who can tell me her whereabouts?”

  “Harold Wetherby.”

  “Wetherby? You must be joking.” Harold was the last person Elizabeth would confide in.

  “No. She is with him.”

  “Alone?” His pulse quickened and a muscle in his clenched jaw began to twitch.

  George didn’t meet his eye. “Er, I couldn’t say.”

  Alex grabbed the other man by his cravat. “Did she go willingly?”

  George didn’t answer, though the pressure Alex was exerting on his neck may have hindered any response. But Alex didn’t need an answer. He knew how Elizabeth felt about her cousin. Finally, as George’s eyes bulged, Alex released him. George slumped into a chair and fought to regain his breath.

  “If Elizabeth comes to any harm at the hands of that black-hearted cur, I will hold you personally responsible.” He left the man gasping as he stalked from the room.

  Tracking down Elizabeth had just become imperative. If he had to hire every Runner in the city, he would find her.

  To Elizabeth’s dismay, it took three more days of mental games and constant hunger before she’d “earned” the freedom to wander the grounds. Even then, Harold granted her barely enough food to subsist, and that only when she was submissive. When she did leave her room, her captor and his greasy servant, Bormley, lurked near enough to prevent another escape attempt. The latter was less attentive than Harold, though, and under his “supervision” she’d managed to sneak quill, ink, and paper beneath her gown and then back to her room. Not all at the same time—stealth required patience, and more days had passed before Elizabeth had collected the materials needed to compose a simple missive.

  Lack of full meals left her energy flagging, but her resolve hardened. Alone in her room after a week of captivity in the remote country house, she pulled out a sheet of writing paper.

  Memories of Alex’s deep voice, his eyes darkened with passion when they touched, swamped her as she wrote. Should she declare that he still held her heart? No. Elizabeth pressed her lips together. Men expected a combination of passion and practicality, not love, from a mistress.

  Your Grace,

  At one time you offered me your protection, should I accept the position of your mistress. I foolishly turned you down. Yet I miss the passion we shared, and long to be near you again. My circumstances have changed, as you may know. I wish to accept the offer you once made, if the position is still available. I cannot say when. My cousin holds me, I know not where, against my will. I intend to escape, and pray that when I come to you, you will not turn me away.

  Ever Yours,

  Elizabeth

  She took a deep breath and folded the paper. A few drips from the candle sealed it.

  And, oh, how far she’d fallen.

  These last days had proven one thing: Harold would stop at nothing to make her his. With each day his vile hands grew bolder, as though he knew her strength, her ability to fight him off, was waning. She was running out of time. Sacrificing her pride, begging Alex Bainbridge for a position she’d once scorned, was infinitely preferable to this—if only she could get to her former lover.

  There was hope. Last night she’d been awakened by an argument downstairs.

  “You promised me double wages for helpin’ you bring your woman out here,” Bormley had griped. “I ain’t even seen regular wages for two weeks. Not that I could spend ’em, out here. Feel like I’m the one bein’ kep’ prisoner.”

  Harold had answered in lower tones, but from what Elizabeth had gathered, he hadn’t been able to appease his servant. Which meant opportunity was ripe—any man low enough to work for Harold in the first place was a man low enough to accept a bribe.

  She tucked the letter into the bosom of her gown and left her room. By the time she reached the tiny parlor, her shadow had appeared. This time it was Bormley, looking disgruntled. Perfect.

  She opened the door and stepped into the yard, knowing he’d follow.

  The cottage Harold had chosen for this adventure was truly remote. It lay at the end of a narrow dirt lane, with no other homes in sight. The lane itself wound through the hills into the distance. She hoped it led to a village. Under other circumstances the house would have seemed pretty enough, with its shuttered windows and whitewashed fence, but she could look at it only with revulsion.

  She continued across the yard and around the corner of the barn, out of sight of the house.

  “Ye’re wanderin’ a bit far this mornin’,” her shadow warned.

  She slowed until he caught up. “I wished to speak with you.”

  A calculating gleam lit his normally flat eyes. He waited.

  Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. Make this about him, not her. “Let me speak plainly. I heard your argument with Wetherby last night. He’s using you. Double wages? Not likely. He’s not a generous man. He’s the sort to pay you off, then turn around and say you stole it.”

  Bormley folded his arms.

  “We could help each other out,” she pressed on quickly. “Help me escape, and I’ll see you rewarded.”

  He curled his lip, eyeing her up and down. His gaze lingered at her bosom, but finally he said, “You’ve got nothing I want. Everyone knows you’re penniless.”

  “That may be so, but I’ve friends who would pay dearly for my return.”

  He sneered. “What sort of…friends?”

  How she hated catering to someone so low. “I can’t imagine, Mr. Bormley, that working for Wetherby is ideal for a man of your skill. You are, perhaps, a man of ambition. Help me, and you’ll never have to do his bidding again.”

  He cocked his head, clearly interested. “How do I know I’ll get paid? An’ what exactly do you want me to do? Wetherby’s got a sharp eye.”

  It was true. Harold watched her constantly, expecting her to run again. She needed him off guard.

  And then it hit her.

  Was it asking too much? She had to try.

  “When you and Wetherby brought me here, he gave me wine laced with something…a sleeping draught, perhaps. Is there any remaining, and if so do you know where it’s kept?”

  He eyed her steadily, unreadable. “There is, and I might.”

  “If Wetherby were…distracted, it would help greatly.” She remembered the letter tucked in her dress. “Can you deliver a message?”

  “Not likely. I’m near as much prisoner here as you, ’less the boss decides to send me on an errand.”

  “I see. Never mind.” She’d have to manage that part herself. “When I’m ready, I shall give you a signal—I shall let my handkerchief fall.”

  She began walking again, not wishing to remain hidden behind the barn for too long. As Bormley had pointed out, Harold was already suspicious.

  “An’ the payment?”

  “The Duke of Beaufort will see to it, I assure you.” She prayed her faith in Alex was true—even if he didn’t love her, he’d not stand to see her harmed.

  Her coconspirator gave a slight nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It wasn’t a promise, she noted. But it was something.

  As they rounded the corner, coming back within sight of the house, the servant dropped back a few paces. If Harold observed them now, n
othing would suggest they’d been plotting behind his back.

  Could Bormley be trusted? She had no illusions that he would consider helping her out of Christian charity. She only hoped greed, the lure of profits greater than those Harold could provide, would drive him to her aid. For once she was grateful the gossip about her scandal with the duke had spread so far. If Bormley had heard it, he’d be more likely to believe she had the connections to pay him off.

  She hugged her arms protectively, only in part to ward off the cool morning mist. Though the sun was out, the chill in the air suggested an early fall.

  “Cold?”

  Her stomach clenched as Harold approached, but she kept her expression neutral. “A bit.”

  “Perhaps you should go in and warm yourself before we go.”

  “Go?” Her hopes soared dizzily. They were going somewhere? He hadn’t mentioned this before, but she didn’t care. She would be away from her prison. Maybe even have a real meal…for surely he’d not keep food from her in public?

  “Yes, did I not say?” His sing-song tone made it evident he enjoyed tormenting her. “I have a surprise for you, Elizabeth.”

  What sort of surprise? More starvation? Another beating?

  “I am most eager to learn what it is,” she managed. She’d have to be on guard.

  “No, no, my sweet,” he laughed condescendingly. “You must wait. But I assure you, you will find it most, ah, engaging.”

  His play on words sent shivers up her spine. Elizabeth dug her nails into her palms. This wasn’t part of her plan. She needed more time.

  She moved toward the house, passing Bormley on his way to the stable. She met his eye, desperately trying to convey new urgency, yet unable to speak openly in front of her captor. She took out her handkerchief, held it briefly to her nose, then let it slip through her fingers and flutter to the ground. She bent to retrieve it, watching Bormley for any reaction.

  The slippery servant returned her gaze with an inscrutable look. Panic welled in Elizabeth’s chest.