Seduction & Scandal

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “You paint a vivid picture, Mr. Knighton, I can see it in my mind, and how bright your words make it. I can almost taste the spice, hear the music.”

  Isabella noticed that Wendell was blushing. Curiously, she did not feel anything. Shouldn’t she feel at least a little enviousness that it had been Elizabeth pulling him into the conversation and making him blush?

  “Everyone must at one time go to the East. It truly is another world.”

  “Oh, I would love to,” Elizabeth murmured. “My family is descended from a Knight Templar. Did you know that, Mr. Knighton? His name was Sinjin York, and he was considered a brave and highly skilled warrior. I’ve long been captivated by the Templars. Such a romantic story theirs is, and tragic, too.”

  “The Templars are fascinating. I’ve heard of your ancestor, Lady Elizabeth. There are stories that three Templars escaped persecution from the French king, and made their way back to their native Scotland. With them, they each carried an object purported to be from the time of Christ. If the rumors are true, there is a chalice, suspected of being the Holy Grail, and a necklace, which contains the seeds from the apple from which Eve ate.”

  Isabella did not miss the fleeting glances that volleyed between Alynwick, Sussex and Black.

  “Sussex is a long and noble Scottish title, my lady. Perhaps it was your ancestor whom the stories speak of?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Oh, I doubt that, Mr. Knighton. You see, Sinjin, by all accounts and family tales, returned from the Holy Land rather dissolute and depraved. He brought with him women from a harem he kept, and in the end, he died living the life of a sultan. I doubt he could have cared for any religious relic, for he was quite immoral.”

  “Well, it would be a most gratifying find,” Wendell said, “to be able to prove or disprove such a thing. I’ve long been enthralled with the Templars and the mystery that surrounds them. They were warriors and knights, protectors of pilgrims, but they had a sinister side, and despite their religious crusading, they were quite…well, amorous.”

  “Yes. So the stories say. There is even a tale that Sinjin’s daughter was seduced by a friend—another Templar—and left ruined.”

  “What happened to her?” Isabella asked.

  “She cursed the line of her lover and then she killed herself,” Alynwick said irritably, before addressing Wendell. “Did you discover anything in Jerusalem about these three Templars? I must admit to my own keen interest on Templar history, and I’ve never heard of this before.”

  “Conflicting stories, I’m afraid. Some say there were three Templars, but many more claim that there were four knights charged with the safekeeping of the relics. The fourth was murdered, and any evidence of him, and his association with the other knights, was buried along with his body. I attempted to make further inquiries, but didn’t get anywhere. I’m planning another trip,” Knighton said, to Isabella’s surprise. “Perhaps next year, and then I plan to investigate this mystery. I do believe that where there is smoke, there is fire.”

  “Next year, Mr. Knighton?” Isabella asked. “You’ll be returning to the East?”

  “Yes. I’ll be gone a few months.”

  And when was he planning on telling her? she wondered.

  “My brother has been, and Black, of course, but I could not prevail upon them to take me,” Elizabeth said. “But I do so long to see it. Perhaps when they plan another trip I shall be successful in convincing them to let me join them.”

  Alynwick’s fierce scowl was something to behold. “The East is no place for you,” the marquis announced. “With its lawlessness and black market for the skin trade, you would be ripe for the picking. Any man would be a fool to take you along.”

  Elizabeth ignored the marquis’s outburst and addressed Wendell once more. “You’re having an exhibition, I under stand?”

  “Yes. At the museum. I’ve nearly got everything catalogued and the exhibition is planned for four days from now. I hope everyone will come.”

  “Did you find Templar treasure?” Black asked.

  Wendell stiffened and gazed down at his plate. “Limited.”

  “Ah,” Black said knowingly. “What of Christian icons?”

  Wendell gazed down the length of the table. “Very few. The items I found belonged to Solomon himself.”

  “I see.”

  “I plan to go back because I know—I just feel it in my bones—that there is something to the story of the three Templars. I want to discover if it is true. And then I want to find the treasure.”

  “You’re obsessed,” Alynwick observed. “Like any archaeologist, I suppose.”

  “There is a very seductive power to the tale, I will grant you that much. I’ve been consumed with the story, and the prospect of finding the relics. Imagine discovering seeds from the apple that thrust mankind into a world of sin. Astonishing.”

  Isabella could hardly wrap her mind around such a fact. She was still rather astonished by Wendell’s declaration that he planned to return to the East.

  “I would not put much credence into the tale, Knighton,” Black replied. “The Templars are as much noted for their love of weaving stories as their skill with a sword. They were rather self-important, and probably spread the story to make themselves appear more powerful.”

  “Respectfully, I must disagree with you, my lord. There is some evidence that this story is not just a fable. Evidence exists—a book, and I know of someone who has information on it.”

  “The devil you do!” Alynwick thundered.

  “Indeed I do, my lord,” Knighton challenged. “And it claims that when the seeds from the pendant are mixed with the blood of an innocent in the chalice, it brings universal knowledge and immortality.”

  “Balderdash!” Stonebrook mumbled around a mouthful of pork.

  “Do you, by any chance, read the penny dreadfuls, Miss Fairmont?” Elizabeth asked in an abrupt change of topic.

  “Indeed I do.” She flushed, refusing to meet Black’s amused gaze, or Wendell’s disapproving frown. When he had caught her reading them, he had made his opinion of them known. He was not a fan of such amusements. Instead, he had given her a tome on Solomon and the building of his temple for her enjoyment. Isabella had dozed off after wading through three paragraphs.

  Granted, it was not a medieval treatise, or scholarly paper on Jerusalem, but the weekly serials were vastly amusing.

  “Oh, I adore them, too.” Elizabeth laughed. “Before my sight was totally gone, I used to read the shilling shockers, as well. I adored those gothic stories. My companion reads to me now, and she’s utterly averse to the shockers, so I must make do with the penny dreadfuls.”

  “Lucy and I indulge in them.”

  “Waste of good money,” her uncle grumbled on cue.

  “Oh, Papa, what is a shilling?”

  “A shilling a week, for a year, is fifty-two shillings. In five years’ time that’s two hundred and sixty shillings, and a damn decent investment.”

  Lucy sent Isabella an amused smile down the length of the table. “Yes, Papa.”

  “As I have already mentioned to Miss Fairmont,” Wendell chimed in, “her money would be better spent on a book that would edify her knowledge. But then, women are not always so keen to expand their horizons.”

  Isabella gasped and Elizabeth reached for her hand, squeezing it. “My dear Mr. Knighton, are you suggesting that women’s brains are mindless fluff?”

  “Of course not,” Wendell spluttered. “Oh, my lady, I meant no offense.”

  “None taken. But, please, let us debate this matter. Women are generally denounced for spending money on these diverting and amusing weekly serials, is that not correct?”

  There was general agreement around the table.

  “But it’s quite acceptable for men to purchase the Reynolds Weekly,” Elizabeth said, raising her voice over the loud groans of protests, “which is nothing more than a tittle-tattle rag that repeats the most scandalous gossip and publishes the most detailed and titill
ating police reports. Can you deny it?”

  Black met Isabella’s astonished gaze as he swirled his wine around in his glass.

  “Aha, silence!” Elizabeth charged. “Is there no rebuttal to be had?”

  “There is no arguing with you, Beth,” Alynwick murmured, and Isabella heard Elizabeth’s breath catch. Her face flamed red, and Black glared at Alynwick before speaking.

  “You are, of course, correct, Lady Elizabeth. Men will seek their own pleasures and amusement without censure or guidance. But for some reason we are unable to spare a female from our opinions.”

  “Why is that, do you think?” Isabella asked him.

  “The nature of the beast,” Wendell provided. “As men we are designed to protect the weak. It comes naturally to guide women down the path we feel is safe, and in their best interests.”

  “And reading Reynolds Weekly is not considered dangerous?” Lucy laughed. “Why, the gossip in that magazine has ruined many reputations.”

  “Yes, why is gossip so exciting? You cannot deny that it intrigues both sexes equally as much,” Elizabeth challenged.

  “It may intrigue us,” Stonebrook growled, “but we don’t repeat it like women do, over tea.”

  “No, we do it over port and cigars,” the duke said with a laugh. Even her uncle laughed, and when she turned to glance at Black he was smiling, too.

  What a strange dinner this was. Dinners at home were quiet, polite affairs. The conversation, if there was any, was rather tame. Her uncle asked about their day, where they had shopped, who they had visited and not much more than that. Certainly nothing as lively as this.

  “We were speaking of penny dreadfuls and shilling shockers, Lady Elizabeth, and I hope it’s not presumptuous, but I’m quite certain both Lucy and I would be thrilled to visit you and read to you the most gruesome passages of the shockers.”

  “Oh, that would be splendid. I shall send Maggie, my companion, out first thing tomorrow morning for a copy.”

  “Oh, Lord help us,” Sussex drawled, “we will be up to our knees in gothic horror and spectral phenomena.”

  “Speaking of spectral phenomena,” her uncle grumbled. “Anyone see in the papers about the death of the Highgate Charlatan?”

  “Yes, as a matter fact I did,” Wendell said, brightening. “A rather curious case. She was found dead, and whoever did the deed left a shilling over each eye for the ferry-man. The police reports are speculating everything from a crime of passion to blackmail. Although I can’t countenance the blackmail theory. Her death certainly can’t be motivated by money, because the murdering thief would hardly have a care to leave shillings behind for the safekeeping of her soul to the hereafter.”

  Isabella swallowed hard, and met Lucy’s pale gaze. Alice Fox was dead?

  “Do they have any leads?” Alynwick inquired.

  “The paper said that a black town carriage led by four black horses was seen around one in the morning.”

  Stonebrook snorted. “All the reports claim the same thing, a black carriage and a team of four. Wasn’t that the precise description of the carriage those music-hall dancers from the Adelphi were seen getting into? Bah, it’s just a generalization. And I ask you this, what eyewitness could have seen a coach outside a cemetery on a night like last night at that time of the morning? The only eye it could have been from was a ruffian up to no good!”

  “That is a very good question, my lord,” Wendell replied. “And a coach and team of four is a rather pricey bit of goods. I doubt a common murderer could afford such luxury.”

  Her uncle’s eyes turned downright frigid. “Mr. Knighton,” he stated, his chest puffing up, “you would not suggest that a man of title and rank would be responsible for this murder, are you?”

  “No, my lord, I am merely pointing out an obvious fact.”

  “Obvious?” Stonebrook snarled. “I see nothing obvious about it at all. It’s not a coach and four that marks a man of breeding, by God. Even the middling classes now have a team and a coach and country house. No, Mr. Knighton, it simply cannot be one of my kind. The middling classes, perhaps, they occasionally produce offspring capable of this sort of behavior, but there is no need to glance at a titled man.”

  The silence was heavy and deafening, and Isabella could see how angry Wendell was becoming. Isabella and he were the only common members at the table. Even her mother’s blue blood was not enough to outrank her father’s poor red blood. And her uncle knew it, and didn’t hesitate to use it.

  Breathing heavily, she tried to calm herself. Tried to look anywhere else but at her uncle who had resumed eating his meal.

  “What of you, Miss Fairmont?” Black asked quietly. “What is your opinion on this matter?”

  “My lord?”

  “Do give us your view, Miss Fairmont,” Black murmured as he watched her carefully. “Is it impossible that a man born into a title and wealth could have committed murder?”

  She thought back to last night. To the scene of the crime and poor Alice Fox. She thought of Black, and suddenly her story of Death came to mind. Her image of Death was that of a gentleman. Refined, well spoken—charming. How very much Black reminded her of him—of Death sitting down to dinner, a wineglass in his hand…

  “Surely you have an opinion, Miss Fairmont,” Black taunted.

  Well, of course she did, but generally women were not ever called upon to give their opinion at any time, let alone at a dinner party.

  “Come, Miss Fairmont,” Elizabeth said gently. “He is in earnest. We are quite at ease giving our opinions. Why should you not, too? It is a long-standing tradition with us, our families have been friends forever, and despite society’s rules, we often break them and have a lively discussion. Why, I often debated with them well into the night, and I know the marquis is sitting across from me scowling away because he has never successfully proved his point against me.”

  She was correct. Alynwick was scowling.

  “Yes, Isabella,” Lucy said, despite the warning glare her father sent her. “Give us your opinion.”

  “Well, that is…” She swallowed, and caught Wendell’s eyes. His expression was unreadable, but the slight shake of his head told her she should keep her opinions to herself. To her right, Black watched her, waiting with genuine interest, encouraging her.

  How could both men be so different? They were as opposite as the poles of the earth. One so dangerous to her, and the other…so wrong for her.

  “Come, let us talk of something else,” Stonebrook grumbled. “The evening will be done and over and we’ll be off to our lodge meeting before too long. You must be thrilled and excited, Knighton,” her uncle said as he clapped Wendell on the back. “Tonight is your initiation.”

  To be dismissed so perfunctorily made Isabella see red. She owed much to her uncle, but at that moment she couldn’t think of it. The slight he’d just given, in front of everyone, and Wendell, too, just accepting it and allowing it to happen made her spine stiffen and her fingers curl into fists.

  “I do not see that anyone is above performing some sort of crime. Man, or woman, aristocrat or commoner. Breeding is not a factor. Neither is sex. It is the circumstance, the environment, that has shaped the person. Defects and criminal tendencies happen for many reasons, but they are not excluded on the basis of birth.”

  The table was quiet, and then Black sat forward, looking so dangerously handsome.

  “Beautifully said. They should let women into Parliament if the remainder of your sex is as well spoken as you.”

  Her uncle actually gasped at the suggestion.

  “I happen to concur. Man is man, whether he is born to a title or in the gutter. It is the circumstances around us that forms our behavior. One can never truly know what it is like to walk in someone else’s shoes. I have known many honorable men, both aristocrat and commoner. But I’ve known far more unscrupulous men, from both walks of life.”

  “Now, see here, Black,” her uncle chastised. “Murder is performed by the lo
wer orders. There is no debating that.”

  “It’s not that cut-and-dried, my lord,” Black countered.

  “It most certainly is so. Don’t tell me you’re one of these radicals in Parliament who support such nonsense bills as the ridiculous health act that is being proposed…forgotten cesspits causing cholera and typhus,” her uncle muttered. “Preposterous idea! And the Contagious Diseases Act, what of that?”

  “I think it a good thing that prostitutes are able to go to a physician to see if they have contracted a disease. It’s safer for them, and their customers, and society in general.”

  “Those women are harlots!” her uncle thundered, clearly losing control and forgetting himself. This topic was never one to be discussed in mixed company, let alone the dinner table. Harlots? Of all the dinner topics to be had. But it did beat out talking about the weather and the theater.

  “Quite right,” Mr. Knighton agreed. “These women are multiplying like flies in our city and they are spreading disease like rats.”

  “One might question where the disease stems from in the first place,” Elizabeth stated.

  “From one whore to another,” Wendell said smugly.

  “The point is moot,” Lucy interrupted, “because the entire business could be eradicated if one simple thing happened, and that is, if men no longer went to these women for servicing.”

  “You, my dear, have had too much wine,” Stonebrook grumbled and reached for Lucy’s wine, placing it far away from her.

  “Very well said, Lady Lucy,” Sussex stated approvingly. “But if men no longer procured their services, where would these women go?”

  Lucy opened her mouth, then promptly shut it.

  “You see, the nature of the profession offers a sort of employment,” Sussex said delicately. “Put aside the moral debate, and you’ll see that many women have profited quite well, and have been able to open a tearoom, or save a brother or sister with the proceeds. There are only so many positions for shopgirls and maids, therefore if you take away the profession, you leave many women out of work.”