Wedded in Scandal

by Jade Lee

  “Of course, of course! I was just mixing a special blend, as I said. One especially for lovers,” he added with a wink.

  “What? No!” She should have expected this. She’d forgotten that she was no longer the daughter of an earl, one who could receive a gift from an admirer without people assuming the worst. But not now. Not as Mrs. Mortimer. Her gift of tea meant something else entirely. “His lordship and I are merely acquaintances.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said, nodding his bald pate. “Discretion is always important.”

  Obviously he didn’t understand that discretion meant going about business as usual. Not scraping and fawning over her.

  “My purchase, Mr. Withers?”

  “Yes, yes. As I said, my special blend.”

  “Absolutely not! I wish something else. A dark tea, I believe.”

  “An Earl Grey, perhaps? That’s very masculine.”

  She nodded. But it needed something else. Something that was reminiscent of his lordship. “What if you add extra bergamot? To make it especially strong.”

  “Yes, yes, but a bit overpowering, don’t you think?”

  Exactly like his lordship, in her opinion. But Mr. Withers had a better idea.

  “Perhaps we could soften the brew a bit. Add a touch of lightness, perhaps? A fruit or a spice?”

  She didn’t want to admit that Lord Redhill had a lighter side, but she knew he must. He had a sister who adored him, and by all accounts he was the strength behind the title. “Raspberry,” she abruptly said. She had no idea why she thought a small bumpy fruit was appropriate for his lordship, but it just seemed to fit.

  “An excellent choice!” Mr. Withers crowed.

  “How much will a small tin cost?” she asked.

  “Oh, my, I’m sure you don’t want a small tin.”

  “I’m sure I do,” she returned firmly, knowing she would have to bargain quite sternly from now on. Once the local merchants heard that she was sending and receiving presents from Lord Redhill, the price for everything would soar.

  Sure enough, Mr. Withers quoted an exorbitant price. She countered, and the bargaining went on tediously. In the end, she had to threaten to find another shop before he came to a reasonable cost. Eventually it was done, and “poor Millie” was thrilled to deliver the package herself despite her aching feet. All it took was for Helaine to seal the note that was to accompany the gift; then she added another missive for Lady Gwen and a third for Dribbs. She handed over the last of her meager coins. Fortunately, they were expecting payment from Francine’s father at any moment, so they wouldn’t starve for long. Or so she hoped. In the meantime, she needed to maximize the business she already had.

  It was time to start discussing Gwen’s wedding shoes. A dress was just a dress, after all, even if one did get married in it. Most brides wore their dress again every Sunday afterward to church. But what the newly married truly cherished, what lay on the mantel for their daughters to exclaim over, were the wedding shoes. There would have to be ample room on the sole for the minister to write the bride and groom’s name, along with the date. The fabric would have to be delicate enough for a beautiful bride, but sturdy enough to be worn all day if need be. And the color had to exactly match the gown.

  Which is why she headed directly for the Shoemakers’ shop. But when she arrived at their door, she received quite a shock. The store was closed. Helaine was a breath away from leaving when she heard the babe.

  A child was wailing, and from the desperation in the sound, she guessed he had been crying for some time. Helaine could not go in through the store, but she knew the right stairs and climbed to knock on the door to the rooms above. No one answered, but when she tried the latch, it opened easily. Surely the Shoemakers would not have simply gone out and left the babe alone, would they? Surely not.

  She walked through the narrow hallway, wrinkling her nose in the fetid air. No smell of sick, but the babe was surely messy. Where was everyone? Growing more alarmed by the second, Helaine found the child. He was perhaps eight months, old enough to stand in his crib and wail, but not old enough to climb down and make free about the home.

  Helaine was not skilled with children, but she knew enough to hand him a toy and change his diaper. After that, she was at a loss.

  “Let’s say we find you some bread, shall we?” she murmured as she carried him to the kitchen. She found nothing, not even a bit of cheese or moldy bread. What had happened here? Everything seemed in order, but no one was here. Then she heard a light tread on the stair. A moment later Penny appeared, her face as worn as Helaine had ever seen. What the boy saw, however, was the loaf of black bread in the girl’s hands and he immediately began wiggling to be free.

  “Oh! Oh, my!” Penny cried when she saw Helaine. “Whatever are you—ach, yes, yes, Tommy. Here’s your dinner.” The girl ripped off a hunk of the bread, then quickly peeled the hard crust away. She gave the child the soft center and he immediately stuffed it in his mouth. “I only stepped to the baker’s just down the way,” the girl said. “Just a moment because he was asleep. There was nothing in the house and we needed the food.”

  “But where are your parents, Penny? What has happened?”

  The girl started to respond. She opened her mouth, she tried to speak, but no sound came out. And then the tears began to flow. Without noise. And without an interruption in movement of bread to the child. Tears just leaked from her eyes in a steady stream.

  “Oh, no,” whispered Helaine. It had been awhile since she’d come by their shop. Lady Gwen was Helaine’s first wealthy bride, and so the first customer who required shoes. “Oh, Penny,” she asked, “is it just you and the boy now?”

  The girl nodded miserably, doing her best to wipe away her tears and still feed the boy. Helaine reached out and gave the girl a hug. In truth, it was unfair of her to think of Penny as so young. Though still small, almost pixielike, Penny had to be in her early twenties by now.

  With sudden resolve, Helaine took the bread from the girl’s hand. “Here, I’ll feed your son. You pack a bag. For tonight, at least, you will stay with me. I won’t hear a word against it. Honestly, you will be doing me a favor. Mama has nothing to do all day but sit and mourn everything she has lost. So, quick now. Before it gets dark.”

  Penny released the bread to Helaine, but she didn’t move. Her eyes were huge and so full of sorrow that it broke Helaine’s heart. “But I cannot, Lady Helaine. It wouldn’t be right.”

  It had been so long since anyone had used her true name that the words actually gave her a start. It sounded so foreign. “I am Mrs. Mortimer now. While you are packing, you must tell me how you came to have this handsome boy here for a son.”

  Penny gave in. She grabbed a satchel and put in spare cloths for the child and some very worn clothes for them both. Then the three of them began the walk to the dress shop, though God only knew how Helaine would house them. There was barely enough room for herself and her mother above the shop. As for food, there was some soup left. Enough for two, but not for four. And Helaine had just spent her last coin on Lord Redhill’s tea.

  But perhaps there was something she could manage. She was still thinking about what she would do when Penny finally found the voice to talk.

  “He’s not my son, Mrs. Mortimer,” she said. “He’s my brother now, but he was my cousin. Mama’s sister died of childbed fever. We don’t know where his father is. He’s a seaman and like as not won’t be coming back. So he came to be with us. Papa declared him the son he never had, and so he’s my brother now.”

  Helaine arched a brow and looked down at the girl. “Of course. How terrible,” she said. She didn’t believe a word of it. Many a girl had gotten pregnant and disappeared for a while, only to return with a new “cousin” come to stay. But given her own sordid history, Helaine had no right poking holes in anyone else’s tale. “That must have been very hard on your mother.”

  “Mama cried on and off for the first month. But only when Tommy slept. The
n after that, she was too busy to cry. And Papa was too happy to finally have a boy to learn the trade.”

  “Your father made beautiful shoes. I still remember the pair my father bought himself for Christmas one year. They were perfect, and he said they fit like a dream.”

  Penny didn’t answer, and too late Helaine realized that it had been a mistake to mention her father. Penny was one of the few people who knew the truth of her past, knew exactly who her father had been. She couldn’t risk that information getting out. She couldn’t allow any of her customers to know her real name. They would frequent the shop of a known courtesan, but would never come to one owned by the daughter of the Thief of the Ton.

  “Penny,” she began, hoping the panic didn’t show in her voice. “Penny, if you are to stay with me, you must remember: I’m Mrs. Helen Mortimer now. A dressmaker. Anything I might have been before, anyone I might have known before, is gone. Dead and gone. Do you understand?”

  Penny finally lifted her chin, her eyes round with surprise and then a slow understanding. “That wasn’t your fault, what your father did. Everyone knows that.”

  “No, my dear, they don’t.” Helaine stopped walking. They were at the top of an alley underneath a single large maple that had somehow survived the growth of the city around it. Tommy had finished his bread and was squirming to get down. Though it saddened her to do it, Helaine passed the boy back to Penny. She had to make the girl understand. “Surely you know about mistakes, Penny? About wanting to start again fresh and new?” She glanced significantly at the child. “My other life, my other name, is gone. You cannot tell a soul about it.”

  An odd expression flicked over Penny’s face, a deep hurt as if Helaine had wounded her. “I understand, Mrs. Mortimer. I won’t tell a soul.”

  Helaine released a breath, relieved all the way down to her toes. She remembered Penny as a quiet girl with large eyes and a clever mind. She didn’t think the girl would be one to gossip. “That’s good. If you can manage, the shop is not far from here.”

  They started walking again in silence. It might have been awkward except that it was filled with babbling sounds from little Tommy. They were nearly there when Helaine at last found the words to break the silence between them.

  “My mother will ask, you know. She was never one for discretion, not when you are to stay in our home with us. Will you tell us what happened to your family? Or shall I make something up?”

  Penny lifted up the boy in her arms, tucking his head against her shoulder. She rubbed her cheek against the curly mop of his hair as if for comfort. But when she spoke, her words were clear and calm and filled with such anger that it stunned Helaine.

  “My parents were murdered. Nearly six weeks ago. The creditors came and took everything they could. I have only our home, no money, and no one to care for Tommy while I look for work.” Then she lifted her head off the boy and looked Helaine in the eye. “So if you want me to keep your secret, you must make a bargain with me. Or I shall tell everyone who you are and what your father did.”

  Chapter 9

  Robert frowned at his desk, not at all pleased with the correspondence lying before him. There were the usual three piles. The first was a to-do pile of decisions regarding the family investments. It included letters from his stewards, management reports, articles, and a variety of scientific discussions regarding everything from mining to fishing rights. It was a very large pile and it sat at the top of his desk.

  At the far left where he really didn’t want to look was the pile he called “family melancholia.” This included his father’s latest ideas, reports about his younger brother’s Grand Tour of debauchery through Europe, and finally the doctor’s missive on his mother’s ailment. She had chronic pain, or so she claimed. Mostly, the woman just sat in the dark and stared at the fire. Some days she didn’t even get out of bed. The pile was dubbed “melancholia” because, despite his best efforts, he had been singularly unable to affect any aspect of that pile. His father had more wild ideas every day; his brother, Jack, obviously planned to seduce every female on the Continent; and his mother would not step out of her room. So whenever he looked at that pile, he was buried beneath a tide of sadness mixed with futility. It had gotten so bad lately that he’d ordered Dribbs to put a full, bushy plant on top of the pile. The man never did, of course, but he did keep a full bottle of brandy nearby.

  The third pile was easier to deal with, but no less small. It was simply bills. And his family had a lot of bills.

  But none of those piles were the subject of his current disgust. No, what lay before him dead center was two notes. One from the delectable Helaine and another from Charlie, the new mine manager. Helaine’s note held his attention the most. He smiled at the rough linen paper, held it to his nose to detect the faint sprinkling of lemon, and even traced his fingertip over her soft curving letters. Very feminine, to his mind, and also unusually fine penmanship for a girl of the middle classes, even a courtesan. So she must have had a decent education. All of that made him smile. Her words, however, did not.

  To Lord Redhill,

  Three vendors visited me this morning with offers of credit. Thanks to your efforts, I have hopes of establishing my little shop as a premier dressmaker to the ton. Words cannot adequately express my thanks. All I can do is to offer this humble token of tea for your enjoyment as it reminds me of you. Please know that my deepest expression of gratitude will come to you through your sister. I shall work tirelessly so that she is the most beautiful bride any woman could hope to be.

  With humble thanks,

  Mrs. H. Mortimer

  Robert snorted as he read it through again. He did not want her gratitude, and he certainly did not want it expressed through his sister. The very idea made him slightly queasy. Of course that was clearly the point. It was rather repulsive to think of his mistress also being his sister’s dressmaker. Only a madman would pursue such a thing, especially against both ladies’ wishes.

  And yet he could not stop himself. Helaine drew him. She challenged his mind, she roused his protective instincts, and she made him harder than granite. No woman of his acquaintance had ever done all three things. He had barely spent more than a couple hours in her presence and yet he’d spent the better part of the last two days thinking of more ways to intrigue her. Intrigue her, tempt her, then seduce her. That was his plan, and he was spending an inordinate amount of time thinking of ways to do it.

  The other letter on his desk was not nearly so enticing. It was from Charlie, the young man who had shown such strength of character down in the mines that one benighted day. After firing the old manager, Robert had promoted Charlie to the job. The boy wrote that the sacked Mr. Hutchins was stirring up the workers. He said that men who had not one month ago cursed Hutchins’s name were now following him as he fostered a revolt. It was all because Robert had shut down the mine for repairs. He would not allow one man, woman, or child inside the damn place until it was safe to do so. But men out of work had little to do but curse the people in charge. And Robert’s other decree, that he would hire no woman and no child under the age of twelve, had hit some families hard. They needed the extra income. Which meant that the whole area was a powder keg of unrest.

  Damn. It would take more money and more time to settle this peacefully. And that would take him away from London when he really wished to be with Helaine. Enough dithering, he told himself sternly. It was time for action. So thinking, he grabbed his own stationery and pen. Two minutes later he had invited the lady to share tea with him at a small, intimate café. If she wanted to express her gratitude, then she could do so in person. Where he could persuade her to be more demonstrative of her thanks. A minute later, he rang his bell for Dribbs.

  “Dribbs, I need you to send a footman to deliver a note for me, if you would.”

  There was a deafening silence as his butler hesitated at the door, neither coming closer to grab the letter nor stepping outside to call for a footman.

  Robert looked
up with a frown. “Dribbs?”

  “Er, might I inquire, my lord, is that perhaps a missive for Mrs. Mortimer, the dressmaker?”

  Robert straightened up with a frown. “My correspondence is none of your concern, Dribbs, just the delivery. Any competent butler would know that.”

  The man colored a dark red to the tips of his ears, but he did not back down. “Of course, my lord,” he said. “But it may interest you to know that I also received a note from Mrs. Mortimer.”

  Robert felt his eyebrows rise almost into his hairline. “Did you?” he asked, his voice deceptively low. “I can’t imagine what about.”

  “Well, my lord, she bade me to make a pot of your new tea directly, and…um…”

  “Spit it out, man.”

  He didn’t spit it out. In fact, he dashed out of the room only to return a second later with the tea tray. On it was a steaming pot of tea, presumably with the leaves already brewing. The tea, he recalled, that Helaine had sent. The tea that reminded her of him. He took a tentative sniff and felt his sinuses clear. Good Lord, but that was strong stuff. Meanwhile, Dribbs finished setting out the tray, but he didn’t leave. Instead he stood there, still flushed a dark red, and with a clear apology in his eye.

  “She said something else, didn’t she?” Robert asked.

  “Yes, my lord. She said if you were to write her a letter or in any way try to contact her, I was supposed to give you something. And say something.”

  Robert leaned back, surprise and pleasure slipping through his mind. “Go on.”

  “She said that she hopes you enjoy this rather strong, almost overbearing brew. And that while you are drinking, you might enjoy some reading material.” At which point, Dribbs held out a political pamphlet.

  Robert took it, frowning as he saw an unfamiliar woman’s name as the author. A quick glance, however, had him bursting out with laughter. The opening lines asked these questions: Why can’t women have productive careers? Why are we forced to choose between becoming a wife or a whore with nothing in between? It went on to claim that a woman without a man was perforce expected to become a mistress. She was barred from most legitimate trades and occupations. And even the lower orders such as maids and cooks were subjected to the lewd and unwanted advances of their employers. Almost as if the men believed that if a woman had no protector, she must wish to be a whore.