Season for Scandal

by Theresa Romain

  The look of loathing Turner shot him was enough to fix a pleasant expression on Edmund’s face that was not entirely feigned.

  “So. You’re here to steal things,” Edmund added conversationally. “But not my silver. And it can’t be my wife. I’m nearly out of ideas. Care to elucidate?”

  “The Xavier rubies.”

  Edmund’s hands clunked onto the top of his desk. “Huh. I didn’t expect that.”

  “Maybe you’ve heard about a few jewel thefts in Mayfair. I’m not saying I had anything to do with those, mind you.”

  “Lady Sheringbrook’s pearls?” Edmund racked his brain. “That’s all I know of. There have been others?”

  “Others,” Turner confirmed. His oily smile was back. “So says rumor. And Lady Alleyneham, and Lord Debenham, and that Pellington fellow. A flock of pitiful sheep, the ton is. A few families are putting up a reward for the capture of the thief. I’m thinking I might take them up on it.”

  “By turning yourself in? Good God. You stole pearls from an old woman. As though she hasn’t enough to be going on with, with spasms in her hands and a son worth less than—”

  “Poor woman, yes, with her fine house and her annuity to keep her warm. She’s a stingy old bat, not even helping her only child. But there are ways for a man to find the help he needs.”

  “God,” Edmund repeated, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “You’re telling me that you and Sheringbrook are stealing jewels.”

  “I never said anything of the sort.”

  “No, you carefully did not.” Edmund sighed. “What’s this rot about the Xavier jewels, then?”

  “Ah, yes. See, that’s where you and Lady Kay come into the matter.” Turner leaned back in the chair and narrowed his eyes. “The problem is, I think she still loves you. That won’t do.”

  “Why would you possibly think such a thing?” The words came out more like a croak than a question.

  “Since she’s left you, I see she’s lost a bit of her sparkle. Not to say there aren’t still ways of giving a gel joy—”

  Edmund sprang to his feet.

  “—but she’s not to my taste. A skinny little plain slip of a girl.” Turner raised placating hands. “So touchy, aren’t you?”

  “Out,” said Edmund, advancing around the desk.

  “Hear me out, because your family’s reputation depends on it.”

  Edmund missed a step.

  “Aha. Thought so.” Turner smiled, though his normally smooth expression looked a bit ragged. “Here’s what you’ll do, then. You’ll meet Lady Kay at Xavier House and get her to tell you where those rubies are kept. Seduce her, threaten her, whatever you like. She knows. Sheringbrook says she’s worn them before. Once you find out, I’ll call on you again, and you’ll tell me.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort.” Footing steady again, Edmund loomed over Turner’s chair. “Out.”

  “I thought you might be dobh—er, stubborn about the matter.” The words tripped quickly from Turner’s tongue. “Which is why I’ll tell Lady Kay everything if you don’t agree.”

  “Out.” Edmund grabbed Turner’s forearm and hauled him from the chair. “Now. And don’t touch the silver.”

  “Think about it,” Turner said. “Do you want her to hate you for keeping secrets? Or do you want to pay the smaller price—really, no price at all—for handing over another man’s jewels?”

  “Why should she believe anything you say? She knows you as Bellamy.”

  “I have letters from your mam as proof. If I show them to Lady Kay, I needn’t tell her I’m Turner, need I? But even if you decide to, I wonder whose lies will bother her more. A recent friend, or the man she married?”

  Edmund’s hand had gone cold, but he wouldn’t relax his grip on Turner’s arm. “Out.”

  Somehow, the man shook free and drew himself up straight. “I’m going. I’ll be back tomorrow for you to tell me what you’ve decided. But one way or another, I’ll have those jewels on Christmas Eve. If you won’t get me the answer I need, I’ll take it from Lady Kay myself.”

  Revulsion clamped Edmund’s hand tight at the collar of Turner’s coat. “Out. I won’t listen to another word.”

  “I’ve said my piece.” Again, Turner freed himself, and he opened the study door. “I’ll return tomorrow.”

  “Out.” Edmund shoved the door shut behind him, hoping it caught him in the arse.

  The sudden quiet roared in his ears; the study’s book-lined walls closed in on him. Blackness crept into the edges of his vision, speckled with bright colors. The world twisted and vanished.

  Fumbling his way back around his desk, Edmund sank into his chair. He shut his eyes and waited. Waited for hearing and sight to return; for sense to filter through Turner’s words.

  After a minute, or an hour, Edmund opened his eyes. The dark wood paneling, the neat rows of leather-bound spines on the bookshelves, the warm glow of the lamp and fire were all back in their accustomed place.

  The world appeared calm and prosaic, yet one way or another, his life as he’d known it would soon come to an end.

  His family estate in Cornwall had more skeletons in its closets than any Gothic novel. For years, Edmund had hidden those dreadful truths from the world. He’d built a life in London, and he had done his best to make it a good one. All the while, he kept his silence, kept up his fortune, found good hands to care for his land. He did this for his mother and sisters, and now for Jane. The women whom the law bound to his protection.

  He even left them, or let them leave, to save them pain. Always, he ended up alone.

  Only now did it occur to him that their dependence on him surely brought its own kind of pain. Or that he stayed apart, aloof from any deeper emotion, to spare himself, too.

  His family knew why. They knew what he was worth. Jane didn’t, and that was why she’d been able to fancy herself in love with him.

  That was done now, because he could see no way to protect her except by giving her the truth. Turner would thus be disarmed, his greatest weapon placed in Jane’s hands. Every scrap of feeling she had for Edmund would be killed, but she herself would be safe.

  The idea was not wholly bleak. What might someone as bloodthirsty and ingenious as Jane do with the knowledge of Turner’s identity? His crimes?

  Edmund could not imagine. But it was time to find out. Though he had asked Jane not to call on him again for a visit, she had made no such restriction on him.

  He rang for his carriage to be brought round.

  Chapter 23

  Concerning That Long-Ago Winter

  The hour was far too late for a caller.

  So said Xavier, as he, Louisa, and Jane sat in the Xavier House drawing room. “The house isn’t on fire. So who the devil would be hammering on the door at this time of evening?”

  Jane had an idea, but she wasn’t going to admit it. “It’s a Bow Street Runner. To arrest you for tying your cravat in a preposterous way.”

  “Or to clap you in irons for disrespecting your elders.”

  Louisa smiled. “You can’t think of anyone who might be calling now? Does no one in this room have a wayward spouse?”

  “Everyone in this room has a wayward spouse,” Jane said. “You two just prefer the term ‘strong-willed.’”

  “Yes. Well. The proper term can make a great deal of difference.” Xavier set aside his quizzing glass and newspaper, then threaded his way through the furniture. Opening the door to the drawing room, he came face-to-face with his butler, whose hand was upraised to knock. “Ah. Hollis. We theorize that the racket at the door is somehow related to Lady Kirkpatrick. Is this correct?”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  “Naturally,” Xavier sighed. “Since her birth, Lady Kirkpatrick has been the cause of most of the disorder in my life.”

  “My lord, Lord Kirkpatrick wishes to speak to his wife in private.”

  “Very well, show him up.”

  Louisa cleared her throat. “If, that is, Lady Kirkpatri
ck wishes?”

  “Yes.” Jane’s insides seemed to be practicing a Scotch reel. “Yes, I’ll see him.”

  With a fake-looking yawn and stretch, Louisa stood. “We’re remarkably tired, aren’t we, Alex? We’ll just be headed off upstairs.”

  “Show Lord Kirkpatrick up,” Xavier said to the butler. “I’m not tired in the least, though,” he added for Louisa’s benefit. “I think I ought to remain in the room during this call. Jane is under my protection.”

  “No, she’s under your roof. She’s under Kirkpatrick’s protection. And she’s hardly going to have her reputation damaged by a visit from her husband in her cousin’s home. Come, we’re two people too many for this call.”

  Louisa gave Jane a quick hug. “Good luck. Ring for a servant to fetch us if need be.” Then, grabbing Xavier’s arm—ugh, no, a few other parts of his form—she bustled her husband from the drawing room.

  And Jane sat.

  She had only a few moments to compose herself before Edmund entered, looking like winter itself. He must have come hatless, for his dark hair was beaded with droplets of water where snow had melted; his eyes reflected the frost-blue of his waistcoat, and his coat was dark as the ice of a pond.

  His expression, too, was frozen. Jane could not tell what had brought him to her in such a tearing hurry.

  “You look horrid,” she said. “I mean, cold and worried and—here, come sit by the fire.”

  Lamplight picked out the gilt on yellow-papered walls; the fire cast a halo onto a wing chair of dark red velvet. With more determination than grace, Jane shoved Edmund into it.

  “I wish you’d sit, too,” he protested. “I have a lot to tell you.”

  Jane sat, facing him. Of newborn habit, her fingers found the chess queen in the pocket of her striped sarcenet gown; all hues of green, and unfashionably simple in its cut. “Tell me, then.”

  “Once I’ve done, you’ll never want to return to me.”

  “I’ll go home with you this very minute if you can say that you love me. I know you won’t lie.”

  He stared at her.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “No, you misunderstand. I didn’t realize there was any chance you would return. Ever.” His gaze became fixed on something far away. “But before you make such an offer, I owe you the truth about my family. I’ve never told anyone before. Yet I must trust you.” He caught Jane’s eye. “I do trust you.”

  Jane forgave him for not professing love right away. She knew he meant to be kind, and she could ignore the nearly-right-but-not-quite things he said when he was kind. Especially when he tossed the word trust to her, sweeter and richer than a plum pudding.

  “I don’t know how to begin, though.”

  Her insides had abandoned their Scotch reel in favor of a waltz, and she sank, slow, into the promise of understanding. A few coals tumbled in the fireplace, breaking the silence. Then she suggested, “How about with ‘once upon a time’?”

  “Yes. That will do.” He loosened his cravat, then with a strange, tight smile, he began. “Once upon a time, a little over thirty years ago now, an Irish woman married a baron from Cornwall. It was an arranged marriage, and to the home of the husband she’d never met, she brought a manservant named Thomas Turner. He was charming and brilliant, and he soon became the baron’s steward and trusted friend. The couple had a son, and when that son grew old enough to behave like a reasonable human, Turner became the son’s tutor, too.”

  “What a versatile fellow.”

  “Yes, he was.” Edmund watched the coals flare and crumble. “He certainly was that. You see, he was also the baroness’s lover. Most likely the father of her daughters, born in the years following her son’s birth. And he was a thief.”

  Goose bumps raced down Jane’s arms within her sleeves. She slapped a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t say anything. She had to let him speak. Finish. Tell her everything.

  His words came faster now, as though a wound had been lanced and was bleeding freely. “In 1798, there was a rebellion in Ireland. Irish Catholics rising up against the English, the old battle. It’s been fought many times, but rarely in so bloody a way. It was eventually crushed, the leaders executed, and the movement disbanded. Or so it seemed.

  “Turner was a Catholic, and a steadfast Irishman. So steadfast that he wanted to fund the cause, to revive it in its most militant form. He didn’t describe it that way, though. He talked about justice and freedom. Played on the baron’s fascination with his chilly Irish wife. The poor baron had never known how to touch his wife’s heart—did you say something?”

  “No. No, nothing.” Jane wished she could feel numb. She wanted to cry for him, but it would be selfish to demand his attention for her tears.

  Besides which, she didn’t cry. “Go on, please.”

  “Yes, well, I think he loved his wife, though he didn’t understand her. Maybe that was what kept him in thrall to her. Or Turner. They needed my father not at all; their confidence fascinated him.”

  “But they did need him,” said Jane. “At least, they needed his money.”

  “True. They needed his money very much. And so Turner talked the baron into providing aid for the revolutionaries. Money, jewels, what have you. If the packet had been sent, it would have represented treason.”

  Jane’s insides felt far too heavy for any sort of dance now. She seemed leaden as she listened, as Edmund’s story twisted down darker and darker paths.

  “The baron was weak and credulous. Besotted with his wife; besotted with the idea of being needed for once. He surely could not have understood what he was doing, because traitors are executed, and their families are stripped of everything. Titles, lands . . .”

  “What have you,” Jane finished.

  With a thin smile, Edmund nodded. “Right. What did Turner care if the baron was found to be a traitor? He could marry the baroness and run off to Ireland with her. And damn-all to the children who bore the baron’s name. Or to his servants and tenants, or his distant heirs. Everything would go to the Crown.

  “For all Turner’s other faults, the son had been tutored well, and by the age of nine, he knew a bit about law. Like many boys, he was fascinated by crimes and gruesome punishments. Also like many boys, he was fond of prying into the business of his elders.”

  “He sounds delightful,” Jane said in a bracing tone.

  “He was a dreadful little nuisance. First he realized that his mother and Turner were lovers, and he never trusted his tutor—or his mother, for that matter—again. He had no one left to worship but his father, and he certainly tried to. But not every story has a hero. On the night Turner was to depart for Ireland with the casket of money and jewels, the baron was detained. He ordered his son to take a message to Turner. And the son . . . didn’t. He took it to the magistrate instead. He betrayed his own parent.”

  “A small betrayal to stop a larger one.”

  “There is nothing small,” Edmund murmured, “about a betrayal of one’s parent. But the rest can be told quickly. Turner was found with his employer’s jewels and taken up for theft. The baron pled for leniency, and instead of being executed, Turner was transported for twenty years. The baron must have burned any incriminating papers. He must have known about his wife’s infidelity, too, because he died in a solitary hunting accident that no one looked into too deeply.”

  “And the son?” Jane’s throat closed tight on the words.

  “The son never made amends or received them. He inherited a barony from a father who had never again spoken to him after that night.” He paused. “When his father died, the family was destroyed. The son blamed himself for this. He soon went off to school and never returned home again.”

  “And—Turner?”

  “After twenty years in Australia, his sentence was done. He stole and cheated his way back to England somehow, vengeance on his mind. He hated the boy—now a man—who had been born of his lover’s husband. Who had ruined his dreams of rebellion, or destruct
ion.”

  Blue eyes gone tawny in the firelight, he gazed at Jane. “You know him as Daniel Bellamy.”

  For a moment, nothing in the world seemed to make sense. The movement of Edmund’s lips seemed foreign, forming words that scrambled in Jane’s ears.

  “Huh.” She stood, took a step toward Edmund, then sank down again, missing the seat of her chair. “Huh. Bellamy.”

  “Jane. Are you all right?”

  She looked up; Edmund loomed over her, his brow creased with concern.

  This was enough to snap her world back to normal. Edmund’s story was done. He was being kind.

  Ridiculous man.

  She shoved herself to her feet. “Me? I am fine. Just surprised. How are you?”

  He took her hand. Helping her back into her chair, he rubbed his roughened fingers lightly over hers. “It’s not a good story. But I’m glad you know it.”

  “It’s a horrible story.” She lifted his hand to her face, pressing her cheek against the warm bumps of his knuckles. “There was only one good thing about it.”

  “You heard something good in that story?”

  “Yes. The hero.”

  He tugged his hand free. “There’s no hero in that story.”

  “The boy who saved his family’s good name, title, and fortune?”

  “The boy who betrayed his father and grew up distant from all of his relatives, you mean. A hell of a paragon.” He walked his fingers down the swooping wing of Jane’s chair, then crouched to sit at her feet. “I didn’t know my father would die. But with his wife and most trusted servant betraying him—oh, and his son; let us not forget his son—he had nothing left to live for.”

  He shrugged, as though the matter of this loss was of no consequence.

  But Jane read the rest of his body; he couldn’t hide the truth from someone so skilled at lying. The flex of his jaw, the pressure of his fingers; the tightness of the cords of his neck above his loosened cravat. He worked so hard, so terribly hard, to hold himself together. It was a habit of years.

  He’d already broken her heart so many times. This time, it broke on its own for him.