Season for Scandal

by Theresa Romain

  It was good to have one person in the world whom he could trust.

  Just as Edmund finished squaring away his papers, Mr. Bellamy entered the study, a genial smile on his sun-browned features. He was dressed nearly as formally as he had been at the ball the previous night, though he’d exchanged his old-fashioned knee breeches for loose trousers. Ruby rings winked on both of his little fingers, and his cravat was an elaborate arrangement of starched linen and lace.

  Edmund shrugged off these oddnesses of dress as a likely result of the man’s years away from England. “Good morning to you, Mr. Bellamy. Do you care for spirits? Or some coffee or tea?”

  Bellamy waved a hand. “Nothing, nothing. I don’t intend to stay long.”

  Edmund indicated a seat for his caller across his desk. Rightly, he should have inquired about Bellamy’s business, then sent the man on his way. But it was so good to see another human face—a face he hadn’t disappointed, a face that smiled at him—that he drew out the call. “Will you be staying until the Season, Mr. Bellamy? I imagine a London ball is quite different from the amusements of India.”

  Bellamy chuckled. “It’s a bit odd, all those white faces in one ballroom. Haven’t seen so many in decades, especially not female ones.” He tapped his nose. “I’m not sure how long my business will keep me here. I’ve a nose for the main chance, my lord. That’s all the amusement I’ve ever required, no matter the continent.”

  “The main chance?” Edmund turned his head, the better to examine Bellamy in his peripheral vision. Jane seemed fascinated by the fellow; why was that?

  “It’s but a matter of business, my lord. Men of the world, men of the world. We must have our secrets, mustn’t we?” Bellamy looked around the study as though appraising the dark wood and battered antique furniture.

  Edmund was glad he’d covered the papers on his desk. “I suppose.”

  “Good to be back in the city,” Bellamy continued. “Especially this time of year. Chilly rain, gray sky—gad, a man gets to miss Merry Old England when it’s nothing but sun, sun, sun, all year. How is one to know what season it is when every day is the same?”

  “I suppose,” Edmund said again. This must be what Jane liked: that sense of foreignness about Bellamy. His accent was as odd a cobble as his clothing. It rang flat, as though he’d heard so many different ways of speaking that his own speech had been altered.

  “Well.” Edmund drummed his fingers on his desk. “What brings you to my house this morning, Mr. Bellamy? Is it a matter of business? Or something to do with Lady Kirkpatrick? Thank you for entertaining her so well at the ball last night, by the way.”

  Bellamy turned his scrutiny from the room to Edmund himself. The focus was unsettling, especially when Bellamy smiled. A wide, confident, adventurer’s grin. “No, no. She’s not the one I’m interested in, except as . . . ah, well. Collateral, I should say.”

  And then he changed.

  With a lift of his shoulder, a narrowing of his eyes, his charm dropped away. His flat accent became a lilt: “Don’t you know me, boyo?”

  Edmund fell into a nightmare.

  “That’s not possible,” he managed to say, even as his heart began to hammer furiously. Get out get out get out of here while you can.

  Over the past twenty years, Turner’s face had blurred in his mind, until now it was only an impression of spare features held together by a sense of revulsion. The man across from him was sturdy, blocky, genial. Every inch of his face and dress proclaimed him a merchant who’d built a fortune overseas, just as he’d said.

  But the voice—oh, Edmund knew that voice as well as his own. Behind the flat tones of the sahib, the gentle hills of Ireland unrolled. The hills Edmund’s mother had roamed with Turner before she’d been trussed into marriage and sent across the cold sea.

  Turner, here, in Edmund’s house. After all this time.

  “Sent you a letter, didn’t I, last month?” Turner’s smile was back. Unlike his smile as Daniel Bellamy, it was lazy, devil-may-care. “I don’t see such call for surprise, Edmund.”

  Edmund’s stomach gave a warning lurch. He tightened his fingers on the edge of his desk. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bellamy. You appear to think we are acquainted.”

  The man across from him made a dismissive sound. “Trying to brazen it out? But you know me as well as I know you. And now you know, too, I can get to you whenever I like.”

  The man leaned back in his chair, studying Edmund with some interest. “You turned out looking like your da. May he rest in peace.”

  “You’ve no right even to speak of him. I—” Edmund cut himself off. He must stop. Think. He had known this confrontation would come someday, and now it was here. “Turner.”

  Slowly, the man nodded. “Asked you if you recognized me, didn’t I? Last night?”

  Edmund pulled in a deep breath. Another. And another, until his heart slowed from its frantic pace, leaving him winded. “I do now.”

  For a minute—surely one that lasted much longer than sixty seconds—the men watched each other across the desk. Finally, Turner broke the silence. “I wonder if you ever thought of how I’d spent my years.”

  Every day. “Why have you returned?”

  “Reasons on reasons on reasons. You’ve got some explaining to do, boyo. And some . . .” Turner pursed his lips. “Some atonement.”

  Later Edmund might laugh, that he and Turner—so long separated by an ocean—had settled on the same word.

  But for now, he drew himself up straight, ignoring a chill that raced down his spine. “You may refer to me as ‘my lord.’”

  “You’re off your arse if you think that’s going to happen.”

  “No? Then perhaps I’ll refer to you as Turner. You’ve been cutting a swath through the ton over the past month, haven’t you? How would you like the polite world to know you spent the last twenty years in a penal colony, Mr. Bellamy?”

  “How would you like the polite world to know why?”

  No. The polite world could never be permitted to know. And Turner knew that as well as Edmund.

  Turner was watching him, brows lifted, and Edmund wondered how he hadn’t recognized the man before. That considering expression; how many times had he seen it? Try again, boyo. These sums won’t figure themselves.

  Or when he was a bit older: No lessons today, Edmund. Just me and your mam. Leave us alone, there’s a lad.

  So long, Edmund had thought of him as a monster. Now he appeared in lace and gold; no knives or weapons in sight.

  Yet Turner had never needed weapons to cause damage. Edmund might have forgotten the man’s face or failed to predict how twenty years would change it, but he would never forget that. Turner had sunk claws into their family, so deeply that they mistook the intrusion for roots and allowed his hold to strengthen. When he was finally—fortunately—ripped away, he had torn the family to ribbons. It had never healed.

  “We are in a stalemate, aren’t we?” Edmund felt more tired than he could ever remember. “I presume you intend some sort of revenge. Blackmail? Murder? Or is theft still to your taste? Whatever you’ve in mind, just have done, Turner.”

  “Is that an order?” Turner folded his hands over his belly and studied him, every bit the tutor regarding a student. “I don’t think you’ve the right to give me orders. Not after everything you’ve taken from me.”

  “I only did what had to be done. I took nothing from you that you didn’t deserve to lose,” Edmund said. “And I certainly gained nothing in return.”

  “If you didn’t gain,” Turner said slowly, “at least you kept what you had.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Edmund rubbed a hand over his face. His eyes felt gritty. How long since he’d enjoyed an untroubled sleep? “You took my family and rent it apart. I haven’t been to Cornwall in twenty years.”

  Unseen, the man across from him drew in a deep breath. “Likewise, boyo. Likewise.”

  Maybe it was the childish nickname. The arrogance of Turner’s approach.
Or the shock of knowing that Turner had been part of his entire marriage, beginning with his wedding day. It all roiled together inside Edmund like acid, and his weary lethargy snapped, unleashing sudden anger.

  His hand formed a fist; it thumped to his desk. “How well I know your arrogance,” he said in a controlled tone. “Even so, you’ve surpassed yourself by coming to my house and accusing me of wrongdoing. You deserved your punishment, and worse—why, you could have been executed for the amount you stole. Especially if it became known you planned treason with it.”

  “Money. Trash.” Turner lunged forward, almost in Edmund’s face. “It would have come to nothing if you’d kept your nose where it belonged. And your father would have come to nothing, too.”

  Again, the mad urge to laugh. Nothing: that was as apt a description of Edmund’s father as any other. The man had had no will of his own. Left to his own devices, he would have been the ruin of his entire lineage.

  Instead, his only son had ruined him.

  Turner sat back in his chair, a sneer on his face. “But it’s not the money I’ve come for. Nor to hurt your precious body, my lord. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on your head. There’s people counting on you to stay healthy and take care of them.” He smirked. “Not that you’re doing such a job of that. You look skinny as a wet cat, and about as happy.”

  Edmund stared at him. “You’re saying you don’t want money. And you don’t want to hurt me.”

  “Have we a problem?”

  The situation suddenly struck him as absurd. “I’m certainly not going to try to talk you into it.”

  Turner smiled. “I’ve got another reason for calling on you, boyo. Got yourself married, didn’t you?”

  A prickle of foreboding raced down Edmund’s spine. “You know I did. You were at the damned wedding.”

  “Lady Kirkpatrick seems rather fond of you. Just how fond is she?”

  Edmund, I love you. He shuddered off the thought. “She’s under my protection.”

  “Is she, now.” Turner opened the inkwell. Closed it again. “Is she, now. I wonder what that’s worth?”

  He shoved back his chair and rose to his feet, strolling the length of the room. “I’ve been thinking for a long time what I’d want to do when I was free again. How to respond. What to do to you for your interference.”

  Edmund’s fingers clenched the arms of his chair.

  “We both lost our way of life, young Edmund. But I had no choice about it. So I’ll take a choice away from you. Only justice, isn’t it?” Turner paused. Trailed his fingers over the spines of the books. Edmund had to quash the command stop—stop touching my things.

  The next words were tossed lightly over Turner’s shoulder. “The wife you chose.”

  Edmund fumbled for understanding. “What do you mean? A person can’t take away a wife.”

  Oh. Yes, one could. Long ago, Turner had demonstrated that.

  “You intend to try to make Lady Kirkpatrick love you?” The idea was nonsense.

  “I don’t have to, do I? I just have to take away her love for you. And with what shall I replace it?” Turner’s blunt fingers tugged on a book, stretching the leather at the top of the spine. “Hate?”

  He knocked the book back into place, then turned to face Edmund. “No. Indifference would be better, wouldn’t it? When I’m done with her, she’ll never think of you at all, unless it’s with disappointment.”

  “You won’t be able to trick the baroness.”

  “Already have, haven’t I? She thinks I’m Daniel Bellamy, full of stories and charm.”

  “You’re certainly full of sh—”

  “Tell me, boyo,” Turner cut him off. “Do you know where she is right this very moment?”

  Edmund frowned. “The location of my wife is no business of yours.”

  “You don’t know, though, do you? She could be anywhere. She could be in her bedchamber. She could be fiddling about in the kitchens. She could be . . .” Turner’s eyes narrowed. “Meeting a lover.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But you don’t know. And you’ll think about that now, won’t you? I’ll work at her the same way. That’s all the beginning I need—the not knowing. Then comes the not trusting. And then comes the not loving.” Turner shrugged. “Simple as can be.”

  Acid rose into Edmund’s throat. With an effort, he forced it down. “I would consider such games a great wrong against a woman who’s done nothing to harm you.”

  “Chose you, didn’t she? People are punished every day for their dobhránta choices.”

  Stupid. Edmund knew that word well. Turner had once been his tutor, after all, and not overgenerous with praise.

  Yet he could not let this stand. “Lady Kirkpatrick had no choice but to marry me. She is innocent.”

  “Just depends on how we define innocent, doesn’t it?” Turner considered. “If she’d no choice in the matter, mayhap she’d already given up her innocence.”

  “I won’t discuss it.”

  The man laughed so hard that his queue shook like the clapper of a bell. “So she did, did she? Hope she was good enough to be worth a leg shackle.”

  “This marriage was my decision,” Edmund said through gritted teeth. “It’s a way to take care of my own.”

  Turner’s laughter cut off abruptly. “Your own. Ah, yes. That’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it?”

  Again Turner paced the small confines of the study. Corner to corner, back again, as though trailing a web behind him. Edmund felt like nothing so much as a fly, wrapped and trapped. “You took my family and rent it apart. I haven’t been to Cornwall in twenty years.”

  “Is there some reason you’re repeating my words?”

  “Yes. Yes.” Turner stopped his pacing and turned on his heel, facing Edmund. “I told you ‘likewise,’ didn’t I? You could have gone back anytime you wanted. Me, I’d no choice but to stay away.”

  “You made the choices; the law kept you away.” Fury knotted his stomach. “You should never be allowed to touch them. If you leave England, I’ll give you sufficient money for—”

  “I don’t want your money,” Turner said quietly. “I want your family. My family.”

  “What?” Edmund’s lips felt so cold, he could hardly speak the word.

  “Your sisters,” Turner said. “They’re my daughters. And when I’ve done with you and your wife, I’m going back to Cornwall.”

  Chapter 9

  Concerning an Apology and a Local Journey

  Jane spent the morning waiting.

  After arising from a broken sleep, she waited as her maid took the curl papers from her hair and coaxed it into a fashionable twist. Then she waited upstairs for her husband’s morning caller to leave.

  Now she waited for Edmund to answer her scratch at the study door. She knew he was in there; why didn’t he answer? She needed to tell him something important, and the delay was causing it to grow heavier on her shoulders.

  Her nerves were fairly strong as a rule, but she couldn’t keep herself politely still right now. So she kicked the door.

  “Come,” he called at once.

  Hmph.

  When she turned the handle and stepped into the room, the small size of the study surprised her. It was dark, too; a high-ceilinged, narrow space paneled in varnished wood. The study was dominated by a massive desk, the wood glossy but scarred. Bookcases set into the walls held a jumble of volumes. It looked like a room both well used and ill cared for.

  And behind the desk sat Edmund, scribbling away at a letter. “Pye,” he said, “see that this is posted at—oh. Jane?”

  He squinted up at her, as though he might possibly have mistaken the spare figure of their butler for Jane’s much shorter form.

  “Yes.” An unnecessary reply, but she couldn’t just stand there like an unneeded piece of furniture. She booted the leg of the desk with her slippered toe. This was a fine morning for kicking things.

  He stood—manners, always manners—and
indicated a seat across the desk. “I wish I had a different chair to offer you,” he murmured. “What brings you in here? Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She looked him up and down. “Are you?”

  At the moment, he looked as ill cared for as his study. He must have tugged his cravat loose while writing, because it was flecked with ink and the careful starched folds were crushed. Under his eyes were dark shadows—or maybe that was only the effect of the lamplight and the inevitable gray sky.

  “Fine, fine. Just thinking over a letter.”

  “Do you need me to come back later?” She scooted to the edge of her seat. Coward.

  “No.” He sanded and shook off the letter, then took up the seal and wax. “I’ve written all that needs to be said.”

  “Is it something important?”

  His hands fumbled the letter; a blob of wax fell on it an inch away from the folded edge. Edmund frowned, dropping more wax over the fold and pressing his seal on it. “Nothing you need concern yourself with. I’m asking my steward in Cornwall to look into a few questions that have suddenly come up.”

  When he looked up at her, he smiled. That sweet, lovely, I’m-thinking-of-nothing-but-your-pleasure smile. “We needn’t talk of that. How are you, Jane, after your first London ball?”

  “I’m fine.” She took a deep breath. “And I owe you an apology.”

  The ball the previous night had shown her the greed of her own heart: she wanted more from him than the kindness he shared with all others. Exactly as Edmund had predicted when she’d first admitted her love; exactly what she’d assured him would not happen.

  Yet he had done everything he promised for her—everything, that is, except return to her side after precisely one hour. And considering how far in his debt she was, that was hardly a trespass at all.

  So she had decided on a reasonable course of action. No fussing; no demands. Just simple friendship and separate lives, with the hope that one day soon, she’d stop hoping. If she didn’t speak of her unwanted love, or act on it, it would become a back-of-the-mind family secret, rather like having a mad aunt in the country. A bit embarrassing, yes, but certainly nothing that need interfere with their daily life.