Season for Scandal

by Theresa Romain

  “Shh, now.” Edmund gave her hand a squeeze, chuckling. “The appeal must be Lord Weatherwax’s punch. If anyone knows his spirits, it’s our host.”

  Not that Jane had ever required liquid courage, to his knowledge. The last time they had entered a ballroom together, she had blundered in her greeting, yet instead of retreating, she had marched onward through polite society. Since then, she’d become a correct baroness.

  And a wench.

  He rather liked the wench. And he liked the ill fit of his black demi-mask with its poorly aligned eyeholes. He could peek down Jane’s bodice, and she was none the wiser.

  “I can tell you’re peeking down my bodice,” she muttered. “Stop it. You’re making me feel silly.”

  He covered her hand with his, guiding her through the crowd to a clear area of the floor. “I had rather hoped that it would make you feel irresistible.”

  She snorted. “Men have spent their lives resisting me, Edmund. I’ve no illusions that a few feet of cheap cloth will change matters.”

  “Tut, tut. This from a woman whom I once found playing cards for shocking stakes, enthralling four men at once with nothing but the power of her words and—”

  “A fortune in borrowed jewels?” She shook her head. “That was fun, until I lost. I can’t seem to cast that sort of spell anymore.”

  “You could indeed. You just haven’t tried.”

  “That sounds like a challenge.”

  “It is. I challenge you to be at least as wenchy as you were, ah, borrowed-jewel-y.”

  “Hmm.” She looked him up and down. And then she tipped him a curtsy, somehow managing to stick out her chest and bottom at once. “Get you a tankard o’ somethin’, milor’?” Adopting the consonant-dropping shambles of a serving wench’s speech, she waggled her bosom at Edmund.

  “I’m keen on a jug, sweeting,” he played along. “But it’s a different sort of—oh, I can’t even finish the sentence.” He laughed. “Sorry, Jane. I could quote you a poem, but I can’t talk about you like you’re food.”

  She straightened up, all Jane again at once. “You’re not very good at the wenching game.”

  He laughed again. “Not nearly as good as I once thought, my darling difficult wife. But I am good at waltzing. Shall we have a dance?”

  A few other couples were twirling tipsily to the one-two-three of the musicians, who seemed as unsteady on their feet as the people for whom they played.

  Considering Jane’s waltzing lesson had amounted to little more than a stumble and a grope, he was relieved that tonight’s guests seemed more inclined to drink than dance. “I must try our host’s punch,” Edmund muttered.

  He drew her closer, so that the gentle curve of her breast pressed against his arm. Even in this crowded room, hot and evergreen-spiced and heavy with alcohol, he could smell her clean scent. Just Jane and soap: no fuss, no perfume; enticing as she was.

  “Ready?” When she nodded, fitting one hand to his shoulder, he swooped her other one into his and stepped forward. “Here we go. One-two-three; hold my hands; let me shove you about.”

  “Like a broom,” she confirmed, following his lead. Her hands gripped tightly at first, tense within their short, kid gloves. Edmund guided her with a gentle touch at the waist, stepping back and forth, sideways, an occasional twirl. The simple pattern of the waltz. They had all the space they needed, and wheezing music that made him smile, and sweet candlelit time that unfurled slowly; Jane relaxing, him holding her ever closer.

  A wife in his arms. He’d never thought to wish for this, and now that he had it, it seemed a greater gift than he could ever have hoped for.

  “I like dancing with you,” he said. Inadequate, but true. Jane liked things that were true.

  She nodded, performing a half turn with new confidence. “I like this, too. We’re doing well, aren’t we? I haven’t fallen onto your feet yet, and you haven’t grabbed my—ah.”

  Ah indeed. She was talking about the dance, and the dance alone. He replied in kind: “It was a selfless maneuver to help you keep your balance. I’ve told you before.”

  “I feel like I’m losing my balance now.” Indeed, she wobbled, knocking her shoe against his.

  Edmund tightened his hand on her waist. “Steady, Jane.”

  “Don’t call me by name,” she whispered. “It’s a secret. I’m a wench and you’re a sea captain and we don’t know each other.”

  “So that’s how it is. You want to play a part?”

  “Yes.” She nestled against his chest, head tucking neatly beneath his chin, her hair a soft tickle against his jaw. “Yes, just for a little while.”

  She wanted it, too, then: to leave themselves behind. This was the appeal, the temptation, of a masquerade, and a few words sprang to mind.

  “‘To-morrow when thou leavest,’” he spoke quietly, lips moving against the braided crown of her hair. “‘What wilt thou say? Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow? Or say that now—we are not just those persons which we were?’”

  Her mask fit better than his, because when she tipped up her face to his, he could see her roll her hazel eyes. “You’ve made good on your threat of a poem. What was that, Shakespeare?”

  “John Donne.”

  “It doesn’t sound very nice.”

  Edmund’s hand at her waist drifted—not down to cup her rear, but up, to stroke her back in a gesture of comfort. “It’s nice. I meant it to be nice. It’s about vows and changes and . . .”

  He trailed off. The poem was called “Woman’s Constancy,” and it dealt with doubt. Doubt in a woman’s love, and lies, and . . . hmm.

  “I meant it to be nice,” he repeated with more force than pleasantness.

  Just then, a turbaned figure, masked and cloaked, glided up behind the pair of them and tapped Jane on the shoulder. “May I have the rest of this dance, miss?”

  Never were they to be granted more than a moment’s peace.

  The odd, lax manners of masquerades demanded that Edmund turn Jane over to this new partner. But then the cadence of the interloper’s voice finished its ringing through Edmund’s ears, dreadfully familiar.

  It was Turner. Here.

  No, never were they to be granted more than a moment’s peace.

  Chapter 15

  Concerning Secret Identities

  Edmund tightened his grip on Jane’s hand and waist. The mere thought of doubts and lies must have summoned Turner.

  The man spoke in his natural brogue; Jane wouldn’t recognize his voice. But no matter the voice, Edmund would know who stood behind his wife. The shape of this particular threat was unmistakable.

  “No, you may not have this dance. The lady is already dancing with me.” Edmund held Jane’s fingers tight; his hand clasped her more closely about the waist.

  “But you hide your face behind a mask.” Turner’s voice flowed low and liquid beneath the squeaks of the reedy woodwinds. “How is this delightful lass to know if she’s found the man she wants?”

  He ought to have appeared ludicrous in his turban of red silk. But somehow it looked a little mad, adding menace to his black demi-mask and sweeping cloak.

  “The lady has found the man she wants,” Edmund ground out. He wished he didn’t feel the old twinge of guilt as he said this. “There is no need for your presence.”

  Jane piped up. “Oh, I’m sure this fellow is decent enough for a—”

  “The lady is taken.” Edmund glared at Turner, but the eyeholes of his mask were still misaligned, and the black cloth probably received more of his fury than Turner’s own gaze.

  As Edmund turned Jane away, she trod on his feet. “I beg your pardon,” she said sweetly. “I lost count of the steps while you were talking to that gentleman.”

  “I sincerely doubt he’s a gentleman.”

  “Edm—” Jane pressed her lips together, cutting off his name just in time. “What do you mean? We’ve just met this person.”

  He raised his index finger to indicate that his reply
must wait, then led her from the dancing area to a quieter alcove.

  When he looked over his shoulder, Turner, turbaned and smiling, was right behind them.

  So. He wanted a confrontation in Jane’s hearing. He wanted to break their peace, then flit away with no consequences. Never would Jane suspect that this was her favored Bellamy, or that he was really an Irish traitor.

  Never must Jane suspect that Edmund’s father would have been one, too, but for a whisker of fate.

  He turned to face the man at his heels, wondering if he could mask his words as surely as his face. “Perhaps I have reason to mistrust this person.”

  “Aye, that’s so.” Turner’s teeth flashed bright in the candle glow. “And perhaps I’ve reason to resent this one. Perhaps we’ve known each other for decades.”

  “Perhaps we have, and we’re none too glad to see one another again.”

  Jane folded her arms and looked from one of them to another, but Edmund hardly noticed. He had Turner in his sights now, a Turner that no one knew by another name; that no one loved and admired. Finally, he could speak the truth.

  “But perhaps,” said Turner behind his mask, “we must, because we’ve an old score to settle.”

  “Perhaps the score ought to have been settled twenty years ago, if someone hadn’t been far too lenient.” The masks made Edmund reckless, the words slipping out as quickly as though they’d been straining against their bonds for some time. “Perhaps I am not so lenient, and my patience is running out.”

  Turner grinned, as though he found this statement delightful. “Perhaps your patience has nothing to do with the matter, as you have far more to lose than I do.”

  Slightly, so slightly, he tilted his head toward Jane. His smile grew.

  One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. Hamlet had spoken those words when he learned of the treachery of his uncle. The man who had brought about his father’s death, then slipped into his mother’s bed.

  An apt verse. Very apt indeed.

  “Perhaps I do not,” Edmund countered. “Your secrets are not a matter of life and death to me. But to one who narrowly avoided a sentence of—”

  “Perhaps you’re forgetting how many reputations depend on yours.” Turner’s eyes had narrowed, but his damned wide smile remained bright as ever.

  Jane had gone still during this exchange, her eyes darting from Edmund to Turner. Then she lifted her chin. “Perhaps”—she laid heavy stress on the word—“the two of you would like me to leave you alone to finish your conversation. The waltz is still going on, if you’d like to take to the floor with one another.”

  She turned on her heel, but before she could take a step, Turner caught her hand. He bowed over it, his lips touching her short glove with dreadful familiarity. “Dear lass, there’s no one for me but you tonight. And if I can’t have you?” He straightened up, shrugging elaborately. “Well, there’s not much point in staying to play games, is there?”

  With a nod to Edmund and another bow to Jane, he twirled his cloak around himself and strode off into the crowd. Quickly as that. Gone.

  Edmund should have relaxed. Now that Turner had slipped away. Now, now, before Jane grew even more suspicious. But his heart was hammering, and his stomach clenched on acid sharp as a blade. Not much point in staying to play games, his old tutor had said. As if his every word wasn’t a lie. The game was what Turner lived for, and had for decades.

  “I’m sorry about that, Jane.” Edmund squeezed his eyes shut, drew up the corners of his mouth. Around the silk of his demi-mask, he hoped it would somehow look like a smile. “Silly of me. Don’t know what got into me, arguing with a stranger.”

  “Please. I am not an idiot. He was no more a stranger to you than I am.” She craned her neck, probably trying to locate the red turban in the crowd. “Who is he, Edmund? Are you in some trouble?”

  “Bad investments? Angry mistress? Nothing of the sort.” Edmund spoke lightly. The dreadful moment was falling further away, and it was easier to force a smile.

  “I didn’t think you had those types of trouble. But there are many others.”

  “True.”

  “And? Are you in trouble of a different sort? Edmund—is everything all right?”

  Damn. It was so difficult to dodge one’s way through a conversation with Jane. She was quick to block his every evasion with another question.

  “It’s fine,” he lied. “I just got caught up in the argument. Couldn’t bear to let him have you, whoever he was.”

  “You’re not going to tell me what that was all about.” She sighed. “Edmund, that’s idiotic. You can trust me with whatever is wrong. I’ll always”—she paused—“care for you.”

  So she said. But he was a man of verse and wispy compliments. He, better than most people on earth, knew how little words could mean.

  He realized what Jane’s pause had meant; that she had bitten back a warmer word than care. But he also knew that no love was safe.

  If he told Jane the truth about Turner, she’d piece together the rest in an instant. The old revolution; the treason that could have dragged down the family. The suspicious death of Edmund’s father; the questionable parentage of his sisters—once the Pandora’s box was opened, there was no end to the poison that would leak from it.

  And then Jane would hate him. Not only for who he was, but for tying her to him under false pretenses. Though she had never repeated her declaration of love, her feelings for him were the truest he had to cling to. He could not bear to destroy them.

  “Please don’t worry about it.” He kept his voice cheerful, though his insides wrenched with pain. “Please. I’ll take care of you, Jane, and everything will be fine.”

  So many lies. If he were truly a naval officer, he would be court-martialed. Somehow, made to account for his wrongdoing.

  That was Turner’s goal, wasn’t it? The destruction of trust. Yet Edmund could see no way around it; no way through; he had no idea where to go next.

  Again, Jane sighed, and Edmund braced himself for a scathing protest.

  Instead, she slid her hand up his forearm, then tucked it in the crook of his elbow. “Let’s walk out in the garden. There’s a full moon.”

  The moon hung heavy and low, a silver ball lighting the garden paths. It turned the hedges to gray lace; it threw shadows in every corner.

  There was darkness aplenty for those who sought it. It just wasn’t in the places Jane had expected.

  She led Edmund to a bench beneath a trellis, its vines and blooms long since withered by cold. Sheltered from view and from the chilliest breezes by a wall of sharp-sweet evergreens, they could be alone here. And maybe she could get at the truth.

  “Sit, please,” she said.

  “After you.” He dusted the stone bench with his gloved hands.

  “Always so polite,” she muttered. More loudly, she said, “No—please. You sit. I need to stand for a bit.”

  He accepted this with a shrug and seated himself, then looked at her expectantly. “What’s this about?”

  As if he didn’t know.

  But she wouldn’t bother asking him again. Since he had hardly wanted to share smaller, bothersome truths, he would certainly not reveal a larger one. Not through words could she convince him to trust her. Every day, Edmund knit them up like lace, tossed them away like gilt paper. Words were beautiful, but frail.

  Jane was neither. She was strong enough to share any burden he might be carrying. And she would show him through action that she wanted him; that though he wouldn’t trust her with his secrets, he could, because she would again trust him with her body.

  She just had to think of the right way to do this. Not since the ball at Alleyneham House had they behaved as man and wife.

  Summoning her thoughts, she concocted the perfect wife: confident, passionate, saucy, and sweet. She let this self fall over her like a second costume, a cloak over her tight kirtle and full skirts. It warmed her. When she closed the small distance between herself and Ed
mund, her walk was slow and sinuous.

  “What do you fancy, milord?” Her accent was of the gutter, her voice throaty.

  Wenchy, just as he wanted. All part of the game.

  No other footfalls sounded this far from the house; there was nothing at this distant corner of the garden but night and sky and the faint scent of evergreen, the only plants that hadn’t curled away for the winter. Was it cold outside? She had no idea; she waited, rouge-darkened lips slightly parted, to see whether he would play along. All he need do was stretch out a hand, and she would go to him.

  He stretched out a hand.

  She paused, just out of reach. “How much, then?”

  “How much . . . what?” His eyes were so intent on her that his ears seemed to be running a bit behind.

  “How much do you want, and how much will you give?”

  He shifted on the stone bench, rearranging the tails of his coat. “Well. Since you’re asking—everything.”

  “And?”

  “Everything.”

  She plucked a sprig of evergreen, held it to her nose, then handed it to him. “You mustn’t have much, if you’re willing to give it all away.” It seemed right to drop her serving-wench voice; to throw a bit of crispness at him.

  “I must want a great deal,” he answered quietly. “If I offer all I have for it.”

  He dropped the fragrant needles, now crushed, and reached for her again. This time his hand caught hers, and he tugged her closer until she toppled onto his lap.

  “Everything, Jane. I want—” He cut himself off. A shudder ran through his body; his arms encircled her.

  “More than you can say,” she ventured, and he nodded.

  She wanted to know what that was, but she wouldn’t ask any more. They both had their secrets: his, some darkness in his family’s past. And hers, that she had never succeeded in banishing her feelings as she wished. Maybe that was why she hadn’t been able to play a part since her wedding: every day, she inhabited the role of someone who was satisfied with her coolheaded marriage.

  “You can have it,” she said. “You can have everything, Edmund.”