Season for Scandal

by Theresa Romain

  “At least Lady Sheringbrook knows where to look for the thief.” Jane’s fists clenched. “Considering her son is a—”

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Audrina shook her head. “That her awful son took them. But it couldn’t have been him because he was in company. Playing cards for an entire day and night.”

  “It was simply some chance thief, then?”

  “I doubt it was chance.” Audrina’s gloved hand covered the top brooch pinning her cloak, a sunburst of rubies and topaz. “Lady Sheringbrook’s pearls are famous, and nothing else was taken.”

  “She was lucky, then.”

  “I don’t think she feels lucky.” Her friend’s hand tightened about the jeweled piece. “I think she feels violated. Someone came into her home without her knowledge and took something of far more value to her than money.”

  The hoarseness in Audrina’s voice caught Jane’s notice, but her new friend only looked away to the rippling grass at the edge of the path.

  “You may be right,” Jane said. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it any other way.” Her clenched hand flexed, fluttered, fell to her side. When she looked back at Jane, her gaze slid off after only a moment.

  Jane narrowed her eyes. Something was bothering Audrina, that was obvious. Their acquaintance was a bit new for painful truths, but Jane decided to make the venture. “Is something bothering you?”

  “I’m fine.” The smile that crossed the taller woman’s features was as lovely as it was false. “Just feeling ridiculous, draped in every bit of jewelry I own for a simple walk in the park. But since the theft, Mama insists that the only safe place for jewels is on her person. She has been dripping with gemstones ever since and insisting that we daughters do the same.”

  “Isn’t she worried about pickpockets?”

  “I’m in no danger from thieves.” The autumn breeze had brought high color to Audrina’s cheeks; a flare of sudden emotion made them still more ruddy. “Did you not observe our company? I’m followed by a maid, a groom, and a footman.”

  Jane glanced around, catching sight of two burly men, one in livery, slipping along behind nearby trees. “Lord. Your parents really do want your jewelry to be safe.”

  “This is how I’m always made to walk out, jewels or no.”

  “With three servants?” At her friend’s nod, Jane said, “Then your parents want you to be safe, too.”

  “No, they want to keep me under watch. They don’t trust me.”

  Jane choked. “Ha. What a coincidence. No one trusts me either.”

  Audrina raised a brow. “What did you do?”

  Gambled away my dowry. “Oh, nothing so very bad,” Jane said lightly. “You?”

  “Something very bad indeed: I was born a daughter when there were already four in the family. My sisters have been bad, too, since none of them has married a duke yet, as my mother wishes. Now we’re all on the shelf.”

  “I don’t think you’re on the shelf at all. But if you were—well, from a shelf, one can see everything that’s going on. It’s an excellent place for the curious.”

  “I’m not curious anymore,” Audrina said. “I’m desperate.”

  She stopped walking, her hand catching Jane’s arm. “Forget I said anything, won’t you? It’s not bad. I could be much less fortunate. I know that.”

  “Yes,” agreed Jane. “But just because things could always be worse doesn’t mean we can’t wish them better.”

  “Why, Jane, you are a philosopher.”

  Jane waved a hand. “No, that’s probably the only wise thing I’ve ever said in my life. Don’t tell, please. Lord Kirkpatrick is convinced I’m bloodthirsty and impetuous.”

  “I can only hope,” Audrina said, “to meet a man someday who thinks me bloodthirsty and impetuous.”

  “There are better things to be thought.”

  Audrina looked puzzled. “Surely Lord Kirkpatrick has made you a good husband.”

  Jane would not cast aspersions on her marriage. Not in front of the servants; not in front of the daughter of an earl. “I cannot imagine him making anyone a better husband.”

  How could he? He didn’t love anyone—or, just a little, he loved everyone.

  “I met a friend today,” Jane told Edmund at dinner late that evening.

  He looked up sharply from the soup he’d been stirring. “Bellamy?”

  “No. Lady Audrina Bradleigh.” She frowned at her husband. “You always bring up Bellamy. Why?”

  “Never mind.” He swallowed a huge spoonful of soup, then choked. “Nothing. No reason.”

  When she slammed down her silver spoon, it echoed her aggravation with a satisfyingly loud clack. “There must be a reason. Now. Is it to do with me, or to do with him?”

  “Him,” Edmund wheezed. “Excuse me.” He coughed into his napkin. “I beg your pardon. I’m not accustomed to—”

  “Eating at mealtimes?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Swallowing half a bowl of soup at once.”

  “What about Bellamy?” Jane refused to be diverted.

  “I think.” Edmund fiddled with his spoon, then pushed aside his bowl. “I think he has a tendre for you.”

  “Impossible.”

  Edmund raised an eyebrow. “Who sat next to you at dinner at Xavier House? With whom were you in conversation at the Alleyneham House ball?”

  “He’s just lonely. I’m the only person in the ton who’s as much of an outsider as he.”

  “I sincerely doubt you have much in common with the man.”

  “I never said I did.” Wariness prickled between her shoulder blades. Had she encouraged Bellamy’s attention through her friendliness? She knew that many of the quality took their marriage vows lightly; perhaps he assumed Jane would be the same way. “I don’t think I’ve ever done anything to encourage him. Have I?”

  “Bellamy doesn’t require encouragement to be encouraged.” Edmund said as a footman collected the soup plates. “I’ve observed that his encouragement comes from—”

  “Is this to be another of those sentences where you wind yourself up in knots by the end?”

  He smiled. “I think not. But it’s better I put an end to it all the same. Nothing more about Bellamy; tell me about your meeting with Lady Audrina. Is this the first time you’ve seen her since the ball at her parents’ home?”

  “It is.” Jane waited until the soup plate vanished and was replaced by a dinner plate of crested china. She chose sauced beef and honey-glazed carrots before adding, “She’s the first friend I’ve made in London.”

  A strange sound issued from the other end of the table. It sounded like “wwww” but ended in a clearing of the throat . “Very nice, I’m sure.”

  “Were you going to say, ‘what about Bellamy’?”

  “I thought better of it just in time.” Edmund poked through his own carrots with a fork. “It’s not your fault if someone chooses to take a liking to you.”

  “No,” she said faintly. Such a statement could not help but remind her of her own foolish regard for the man at the head of the table.

  But she would not think of it. With determined force, she stabbed circles of carrot and shoved them into her mouth. The honey glaze was cloyingly sweet, and she let herself grimace.

  “When someone does take a liking to you, though,” he continued, not commenting on the bizarre workings of her expression, “I can only assume they have great good sense.”

  “What?” She didn’t mean to drop her utensil again. This dinner came with a percussion accompaniment.

  He brandished a carrot-carrying fork at her. “You. People should like you.”

  “In the same way people should wear cloaks outside in winter? For self-preservation?”

  “Not at all.” He considered. “More like in the way people should arrive at the theater on time. Because if they do not, they will miss a most entertaining experience.”

  “You think I’m entertaining?”

&nb
sp; He shot a look at the fork lying tines-down at the edge of her china, where it had clattered from her fingers.

  “Oh, hush.” She tried not to smile, yet she felt all fluttery inside.

  After dinner, they drifted into the drawing room. Without guests, there was no reason to separate after the meal.

  “You may have your cigars and port in here,” Jane said.

  “How magnanimous,” Edmund replied. “I suppose you want some.”

  “Not a cigar. But I’d rather like to try port.”

  “How about brandy instead?” Moving to a cunning sideboard, L-shaped to tuck into the corner of the room, he opened one of its cupboard doors and drew forth a decanter. Once he had located a snifter, he returned to Jane with a glass of the amber liquid. “Sip slowly. It’s much stronger than sherry or port.”

  “I know. I’m not an idiot.”

  “I never implied anything of the sort. Only that you weren’t a hardened souse.”

  With a sniff of stifled laughter, she took a sip of the brandy as Edmund watched. “What do you think?” he asked.

  Nothing. She couldn’t think at all. A freezing wash in her mouth, then scalding heat. Sharp. Astringent. She wanted to cough and splutter and spit it out.

  With choking difficulty, she swallowed the brandy. It burned its way down her throat and settled, hot, in her stomach. “Very nice. I like it.”

  “Liar.” He smirked. “Your eyes are watering.”

  “Only because I’m so delighted to taste brandy.”

  “You don’t have to drink it, you know.” He extended a hand, as though to take back the snifter.

  The bite of the alcohol was fading now, and the flavor on her tongue had turned slightly sweet. A little spicy. Buttery, even, if a liquid could be buttery. “I think I want to.”

  She took another sip. This time, she knew what to expect, or she was numbed from the first sip. The full taste of the brandy filled her mouth, then spread its warmth into her arms and legs.

  “I do want to drink it,” she decided. “Maybe if I drink enough, I’ll stop wanting more.”

  “More to drink?”

  “Yes. More to drink. What else could I possibly mean?” Another sip burned her mouth. “Will it make me drunk?”

  “Not in that amount. You’ve just eaten a meal, so the brandy won’t go to your head right away.”

  “Will you have some, too?”

  “I don’t care for any.” He returned to the sideboard and closed up the cupboard doors, then ran his hand over the sleek right angle of the mahogany top. “Best not to tempt fate.”

  “In what way?” She was beginning to feel very warm now. Waving her free hand before her face like a fan, she took another sip. Wisps of hair danced and tickled her forehead.

  “Nothing much. Just a sensitive stomach.” This comment was tossed over his shoulder as he walked to the fireplace and poked up the fire. “Warm enough?”

  “Yes.” She sank into the nearest chair, a painted spoon-backed affair with a woven seat. A rosewood-topped occasional table stood next to it; she set down her snifter upon it. Enough brandy. Edmund had just admitted something rather interesting.

  “Edmund. Your stomach bothers you?”

  Jab, jab went the poker, turning coals until they glowed. “Oh. Well. Sometimes.”

  His shoulders shifted, broad and capable; his coat lay snug over the hard lines of his body. It was a pleasure to watch him; still, surely it didn’t take that long to poke up a fire.

  “Edmund?”

  One more jab; then he returned the poker to its place. “Sometimes I want to be careful about what I eat and drink. That’s all.”

  She recalled their first breakfast together as a married couple, when he had shredded his food. At dinner, he toyed with his spoon so no one would notice he wasn’t eating soup. He cut his meat very fine and shuffled it around his plate.

  “Not sometimes,” she realized. “All the time.”

  She rose from her seat to join him before the fireplace. Laying a hand on his forearm, she looked up into his face. “You’re careful all the time, aren’t you? You hardly ever eat or drink in company. I should have realized sooner.”

  He gave her a tight smile, then turned to study the ornaments on the mantel. “I’ve gotten good at little tricks to keep people from noticing.”

  “Even so.” Once upon a time, she had prided herself on spotting little tricks. A woman played cards with much more success if she read her opponents along with the hand dealt to her. Instead of noticing her own husband, though, she had been busy noticing her house, her own behavior, her own chagrin at the mistakes she had made. Perhaps this was understandable. She had never thought of Edmund as an opponent, so why should she watch him as closely as she once had Lord Sheringbrook?

  “What does it feel like, Edmund? Does it hurt very much?”

  He nudged an alabaster jar ever so slightly to the left, then made its fellow on the right side of the mantel match. “Some. It depends on what I’m doing.”

  “What makes it not hurt?”

  He looked down at her, eyes deep and shadowed. “Such solicitude all of a sudden. What has happened to my bloodthirsty Jane?”

  “I can’t possibly be bloodthirsty all the time. It’s so exhausting. Even if by accident, I’m sure to be polite every once in a while.”

  “You don’t have to.” He turned away from the fire and motioned toward the rosewood-topped table. “Don’t you want to finish your brandy? Come, it’s a fine vintage. You mustn’t waste it.”

  “I don’t want any more.”

  “You said you liked it.”

  Jane shook her head. “Not five minutes ago, you told me I didn’t have to drink it. What is the problem? Do you so badly not want to talk about your stomach pain? Just say so, and I’ll drop the subject.”

  His hand fell to his side. “It’s not that, exactly.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s the kindness. The . . . wifeliness. You don’t have to pretend like that.”

  Stung, she retorted, “I’m not pretending anything. If you can’t even eat your own food and drink your own brandy, I want to know how I can help.”

  He blinked at her. “Really.”

  “Yes.” She lifted her chin. “Really.”

  “Well. If I have rather a lot on my mind, there’s no room for food in my stomach. Something like that.”

  “That makes no sense at all. You can’t eat your own thoughts. Though I’d rather like to give you a piece of my mind right now.”

  He smiled, as she hoped he would. “I have the distinct feeling it would not improve the state of my digestion.”

  “You’re right about that.” She walked over to her vase, her beautiful faraway Chinese vase, and touched the smooth glaze.

  “Jane. May I come to you tonight?”

  The words made her freeze, her finger in the act of tracing the purple-tinted river winding through knobby brown mountains.

  “Not for—well. I don’t mean to press any attentions on you.” The words stumbled from his tongue.

  She turned from her vase to regard him, only to find that he had drawn close.

  “What do you have in mind?” Jane liked the idea of him pressing his attentions on her, except for the fact that he described it like unwanted business.

  “Simply a bit of companionship. Simply—well.”

  “Say what you mean at once, or I will throw a shoe at your head.”

  His mouth curved in a half smile. “I thought we could sleep together. Not for any reason except rest.”

  “No reason other than that?”

  “I thought you would like it?”

  “Why does that sound like a question?”

  “I thought you would like it,” he amended. “It’s not a question. That’s what I thought.”

  Nonsensical man. He offered her this instead of a few words about what was on his mind. “Would you like it?” She was beginning to want to throw a shoe at his head again.

&nb
sp; “I think so,” he said. “I’ve never done such a thing before.”

  “Slept with your wife? I know you haven’t. I’d have been there.”

  His smile melted away. “Not to be impolite—”

  “I would give you ten thousand pounds to be impolite just once.”

  “A gross overpayment,” he said lightly. “I don’t mean to be indelicate. What I mean is that I’ve never stayed all night with any lady.”

  She had assumed he’d had other women, but the very thought made her feel jealous and contrary. “Why not?”

  “It never seemed to serve a purpose.”

  “What sort of purpose?”

  “Jane, I don’t wish to discuss this with you—”

  “Discuss it.” She knew she was being rude. But he hadn’t told her anything about his thoughts, his tensions that kept him from eating a decent meal. She felt as though she had to follow some thread through to its honest end, even if it became dirty and frayed.

  He sighed. Taking her fingers in his, he pulled her to a seat on the drawing room’s long sofa, then sat next to her. From here, she could see her painted Chinese vase. Escape escape escape.

  “Discuss it, Edmund,” she said through gritted teeth.

  He pulled his hand away, then rose to his feet. “Fine, Jane. Fine.” He paced away, then back, catching and holding her gaze. “There is no reason to stay the night when one only wishes to give pleasure to one’s partner. Once the pleasure is done, the encounter is done. Sleeping is not to the point.”

  “Oh.” The words hurt; the vehemence hurt. Yet she took satisfaction in his painful honesty. “What if”—she swallowed—“what if the closeness itself gave the woman pleasure?”

  “I have my limits.” He stopped his pacing. For a moment, he stood still, as though he’d forgotten his destination; then he sank onto the sofa beside her again.

  And Jane realized: this talk of pleasure was carefully meted out, just as the pleasures themselves were. He wanted to spare Jane any discomfort or jealousy, just as he had wanted to fulfill the desires of those other women.

  But that sort of fulfillment was all about quantity: meet the goal, move along to someone else. He wanted to help as many people as possible, which meant he had little time for any one individual. A wife was no exception. At the moment, he thought he could best please her by ending the conversation.