The Scandal of the Season

by Annie Burrows

  And so he hadn’t got as far as working out what he could really do about her, even if he did run her to ground.

  So, for a moment, all he could do was stand stock still, staring at her. Just staring at her. Until she bent to listen to something the short, ginger girl was saying, and laughed.

  Laughed!

  As though she hadn’t a care in the world. When he...

  He flinched as a series of stark and dreadful images surged to the forefront of his mind. Images he kept firmly locked away behind a sort of door in his memory. A good portion of them relating to Lieutenant Gilbey.

  Gilbey sitting with his head in his hands. Gilbey pacing back and forth, his face tortured, after reading one of those damned letters she’d sent him. Gilbey’s shattered body staining the snow scarlet...

  He found himself stalking across the room, dazed to discover that Issy had been right. And, that being the case, he did have to do something. Even though he didn’t know exactly what. Because, even though the hostess, Lady Bunsford, was hardly a leader of society, if the Furnival girl had got in here she would not stop until she’d gained the objective Issy had painted in such lurid colours. And that he could not allow.

  The very moment he began to stalk towards her, she turned, as though sensing his interest. Looked at him. Frowned a bit, as though trying to work out why his face looked familiar.

  And then her face lit up. As though she was delighted to see him again.

  The power of that smile almost, almost made him falter. It was so warm. So welcoming. And promised so much. For a moment or two it felt as if she’d cast some kind of net, formed from invisible gossamer threads, and that she was reeling him in rather than him marching across a crowded ballroom to challenge her because that was his choice. The same way she’d done the very first time he’d met her, at that assembly near where the regiment had been based for a time. All she’d had to do, that long-ago night, was to look over her shoulder at him, wistfully, as she went through a door that would take her to the stable yard, and he’d trotted after her like a...like a dog called to heel. Even though he’d resisted the temptation to ask her to dance before that moment. Even though she was too young for him. For any man, so he’d thought. She’d been all promise. Blossom. Not ready to be plucked. And yet, oh, so damned alluring.

  It was her mouth. The way the top lip pouted, as though inviting a man to suck it into his own mouth and...

  No, it was her eyes. The liveliness that danced in them, making a man yearn to drown in their greeny-brown depths...

  No, it was her skin. Which wasn’t blandly perfect like that of so many debutantes who reminded him of brittle porcelain. It was creamy and warm, and dotted here and there with moles which made his fingers itch to trace the course of their intriguing pattern...

  ‘Colonel Fairfax,’ she said, holding out her hand with the practised grace of a seasoned seductress.

  No man could have resisted taking it, bending over it and bestowing the kiss she demanded. Least of all, as it turned out, him. Which infuriated him.

  ‘How delightful to see you again,’ she cooed, ‘after all this time.’

  He straightened up and dropped her hand. Just because he acknowledged her beauty, her allure, it did not mean he was going to fall under her spell. Thanks to Issy he knew what she was, now, what she was capable of. Saying she was delighted to see him again, for instance. Making him believe, with the radiance of that smile, that she meant it when he knew it must be impossible. She was too young, too lovely to genuinely have any interest in a dried-up husk of a man like him.

  ‘Miss Furnival,’ he said, his wounded pride smarting so much that his voice sounded harsh, even to his own ears. ‘Still up to your pretty little neck in mischief, I see.’

  The hand he’d just kissed flew to that neck, as though inviting his eyes to follow. Inviting his lips to do the same, at some later date. Or perhaps his teeth. If she was everything Issy had said, then she wouldn’t care which.

  Even though he’d just thrown down the gauntlet? Perhaps because he’d challenged her. Perhaps it was a declaration that she would fight back, with all the weapons in her arsenal. And a fight it was to be, now, he realised with a pang of what felt like loss. The warmth had gone from her smile. From a distance it probably looked the same, but this close to her, close enough to smell the floral fragrance she was wearing, he knew different.

  ‘Mischief?’ She gave a little frown, as though she could not understand what he could possibly be implying. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  For a moment, he wished she really didn’t have any idea what he meant. That they were not on opposing sides. That he’d been able to bask in the warmth of that first smile, rather than having to make it freeze in place. That he could have taken her hand without reservation and begun to converse with her the way any man would talk to a pretty woman he’d met and felt drawn to.

  But that outcome had never been possible. When they’d first met, he’d known he would shortly be going abroad and that he might be away too long to even suggest, let alone hope, she might wait for him. Known that she’d been too young for him and now...now his mission made fraternising with her an impossibility.

  He tore his eyes from her before her loveliness gained sufficient power to weaken his resolve and focused on the girl next to her. The girl Issy had told him was the daughter of a mill owner. ‘To begin with, foisting a girl like that,’ he said to Miss Furnival, though he kept on looking at the ginger girl, ‘on to a featherbrained creature like the Duchess of Theakstone.’

  The ginger girl flinched. Scowled. And, as he’d regained command of his wayward tendency to wish for the impossible, he turned his head to address Miss Furnival directly. ‘I don’t know how you have managed to persuade her to take part in one of your schemes, but I do know that you are encroaching upon her good nature.’

  ‘One of my schemes?’ Miss Furnival added a shake of her head to the mystified frown she’d manufactured for his benefit. ‘What schemes?’

  ‘Don’t think you can fool me by that look of innocence,’ he snarled at her through a mixture of bitterness and disappointment that she had, apparently, already done so once. ‘Nor anyone else, not for very long. There are those who know what you have done, what you are...’

  She flung up her chin. ‘And what am I?’

  Where to start? ‘An adventuress. A heartbreaker.’ Not that she’d broken his heart. He’d only got as far as wishing she was older, wishing he could get to know her better before the regiment left England, wishing he could ask her to consider waiting for him...

  Thank goodness. Otherwise, when she’d turned up on the quayside, clinging to Gilbey’s arm as the lad stammered out his intention to marry her and carry her on board with them like so much baggage...

  But then, according to Issy, she was a baggage, wasn’t she?

  ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘I could ever forget what you did to Lieutenant Gilbey?’ According to Issy, that was. Although he still wasn’t completely convinced. And it wasn’t just because she was acting so surprised. Part of him really didn’t want to believe she could look so lovely, yet be so hard-hearted. Perhaps, if he flung her supposed crimes in her face, she would refute them in such a way that he could go back and inform his sister she’d been mistaken. ‘You cajoled him to make a runaway match of it,’ he ventured. ‘And then when I believed I’d managed to extricate him from your clutches, you still managed to wheedle his fortune out of him.’

  ‘You...got him out of my clutches?’ Her eyes widened, briefly, then turned hard.

  His heart sank as she revealed a side of her he’d kept on hoping, right to this very minute, had been a figment of Issy’s imagination.

  But then wasn’t that always the end result of hope? Shattering disappointment. Nothing ever lived up to a man’s expectations. Not military glory, not social preferment and most definitely not, he’d just discov
ered, a woman.

  ‘If that is your opinion of me,’ she said frostily, ‘then I fail to see that we have anything further to discuss.’ She turned aside as if to cut him. He prevented her from doing so by simply stepping sideways and so maintaining his position directly in front of her.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he said, bitterness and disappointment driving him further than anything Issy could have provoked from him. ‘I have come here tonight specifically to warn you that I have received intelligence as to your manoeuvres. I suppose you have run through Lieutenant Gilbey’s fortune by now. That is why you have come to London. You are hoping to be able to dupe some other gullible fool into loosening his purse strings.’ That was certainly what Issy believed. And, believing it, had not been able to sit back and watch Miss Furnival get away with it all over again.

  ‘I have no intention of doing any such thing,’ she denied hotly.

  ‘Why else would you be using the Duchess to parade you about town, if not to catch yourself a husband?’

  She frowned. Glanced at her companion. Took a breath. But before she could utter a single excuse, he said, ‘You will not get away with it. I will not allow you to get away with it.’ Issy had been right. He owed it to Gilbey, and Gilbey’s family, and every other vulnerable male of marriageable age in England, to put a stop to her scheming before she could really get going.

  ‘Get away with it?’ Her eyes flashed with fury. ‘And just how, pray, do you intend to stop me?’

  If he’d had any doubts about her plans before, that statement exposed them. Because he could not very well hinder non-existent plans, could he?

  ‘For a start,’ he said, thinking on his feet, while wishing he’d taken the precaution of forming some kind of contingency plan, ‘I shall inform the poor woman you have deceived into giving you house room exactly what you really are. And then I will make sure everyone knows that she,’ he said, indicating the ginger girl, ‘the one you claim is your friend, has no right to appear in decent society, either.’

  ‘Cassy...’ The ginger girl took hold of her arm, a look of concern on her face. He turned to address her.

  ‘My quarrel is not with you, miss. If you withdraw from society quietly, I shall pursue you no further. And if you—’ he turned to Miss Furnival once more ‘—confess your crimes to the Duchess, before any harm is done to her, and leave Town, I shall not expose you, either. I am, after all, a man of honour.’

  ‘A man of honour?’ Miss Furnival turned up her nose in scorn. ‘Men of honour go about interfering in matters that are of no concern to them, do they? Flexing their muscles and threatening defenceless females?’

  He hadn’t flexed any muscles, in a literal sense, but somehow by referring to them he suddenly felt aware of several. One in particular that had been lying dormant for some years.

  If she’d really been defenceless, that reaction might have given him pause. But she wasn’t. The ease with which she could arouse a man who’d been practically dead in that department just went to prove it. So he gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘Defenceless? You are about as defenceless as those sirens were, luring all those sailors to their deaths.’

  She looked taken aback. It was a small victory, but one he was prepared to accept. And on the principle that it was better to withdraw while he had the advantage, he turned on his heel and quit the ballroom.

  Chapter Three

  Cassandra watched the Colonel stalk from the ballroom, her heart pounding and her limbs shaking. She couldn’t believe she’d spoken so sharply to him. She never stood up to anyone, or lost her temper, ever. But then he’d dragged her through so many strong emotions in such a short space of time. Perhaps that was what had made her lose self-control.

  To start with she couldn’t believe he would turn out to be so...unkind. She’d had such fond memories of him. He’d been the first man she’d ever looked at with any sort of romantic interest. And although he’d been far too mature and important to return that interest, she hadn’t held that against him. On the contrary, when he’d come to her rescue, several weeks after their initial meeting, he’d gone up in her estimation even higher. So much so that ever since, she’d thought of him as her hero. Her saviour. She’d never had the chance to thank him properly for what he’d done. And so she’d been really pleased to see him when he’d marched into the ballroom.

  Only to learn that he hadn’t done what she thought he’d done at all. Far from stepping in, and rescuing her from her folly, he thought he’d been rescuing Guy from her clutches. Those few curt words had shattered the bubble of pleasure in which she’d been floating, during these last few weeks since she’d come to London. No, come to think of it, he’d punctured her pleasure the moment he’d reached her side when he’d accused her of being up to her neck in mischief just as she’d been thinking how wonderful it was to be able to renew their acquaintance. Now that she was old enough to hope he might see her as a woman and not a silly schoolgirl.

  ‘What,’ said Rosalind, breaking through the turmoil of her reactions, ‘was all that about? Who was he? And aren’t you supposed to be smiling? Her Grace says we are always supposed to have a serene smile stuck to our lips no matter what, when we’re out in society.’

  Cassandra blinked. ‘Yes, of course, you are correct. Thank you for reminding me,’ she said, fixing the required smile in place.

  ‘Who is he? An old flame, or something?’

  ‘Not an old flame, no. But I did believe he’d been my friend. He was the only person, during the whole sorry episode, who did anything practical.’ He’d been like a rock. Standing firm in the midst of all the confusion on the quayside, the only one who seemed to know what was going on and having some control over it.

  ‘What sorry episode? And what did he mean about you scheming? Are we done for?’

  ‘I am so sorry, Rosalind,’ she said, turning to the girl, rather than continuing to gaze blankly at the door through which he’d just gone. ‘I did warn Godmama that things from my past might come back to haunt us, but she assured me that she could scotch all the rumours about the indiscretion, particularly since I committed it when I was scarcely more than a schoolgirl...’

  ‘Indiscretion?’ Rosalind’s eyes grew round with wonder. ‘You? And you always being held up as a pattern card for me to follow.’

  Yes, well, Cassandra had spoken to Godmama about that, too. But she’d brushed Cassandra’s concerns aside, reminding her that Rosalind needed to learn so much in the way of deportment and etiquette that advising her to mould herself on Cassandra would be the quickest way to effect the necessary transformation in the short time they had available.

  ‘After all, it is one of the reasons I brought you to Town, darling,’ she’d said. ‘So that you could help me school Miss Mollington into behaviour fitting someone who could marry a titled man.’

  Of course, Cassandra had felt that it was the least she could do to repay Godmama’s generosity and hard work in attempting to restore her reputation.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ said Cassandra. ‘You must be so disappointed...’

  ‘The only thing that will disappoint me is if you don’t, immediately, tell me all about it. What kind of indiscretion did you commit when you was a schoolgirl that could get a man like that in such a pother that he’d threaten to expose you?’

  ‘Not here,’ said Cassandra, who’d noticed that several people were looking their way, then looking at the door through which Colonel Fairfax had just marched, and then back at them again and then whispering behind their fans. ‘Come.’ She linked her arm through Rosalind’s and sauntered along until they reached the door to the terrace. There were a few people outside taking the air, but there was still plenty of places where they could talk without risk of being overheard.

  ‘Well?’ The moment they were out of earshot of the ballroom, Rosalind leaned back against the parapet, demanding an explanation. Cassandra rubbed her ha
nds up and down her arms. She hated to have to let Rosalind down. Over the last few weeks, they’d become friends. Or the closest thing to friends that Cassandra had experienced for many years. Even though Rosalind was a bit rough around the edges, she had a generous nature and a warm heart. But now their friendship would all come to an end. The way friendships did at the first hint of trouble.

  But where to start? With the first ball she’d ever attended, where she’d first met Colonel Fairfax?

  No, for if she talked about that, she’d also have to go back further, to explain the complicated reasons why she’d gone there without her mother, and she didn’t want to go into all that right now. It would take too long to relate the story of how Lady Agatha, her closest thing to a friend back then, had decided it was high time she had a little fun and persuaded her own mother to let her join a party of local young people attending a benefit ball at the White Hart. Her stepfather had been not only too mean to wish to purchase three tickets to raise funds for the parish alms houses, but when Agatha’s father, the Earl of Spendlow, had offered to collect her in his own carriage and convey her home in it, too, Mama had timidly suggested that it would be a splendid way of helping her prepare for her eventual come-out, by experiencing a ball in unsophisticated surroundings, without incurring any expense whatever.

  She sighed as she thought of her younger self, walking into that ballroom arm in arm with Lady Agatha and being immediately besieged by a corps of scarlet-jacketed officers from her brother’s regiment. Guy, Agatha’s brother, had seen how wary she’d been of all those boisterous young men and had taken her under his wing. And she’d felt safe with him, for he’d treated her exactly the way he treated his own sister.

  There had been only one officer who hadn’t joined the mob, who hadn’t teased and flattered either her or Agatha. And that had been Colonel Fairfax. There was nothing frivolous or false about him, she’d decided, as the evening had progressed. He was fully in command of himself, unlike other men who became increasingly intoxicated the closer it drew to midnight.