Surrender to Scandal

by Kelly Boyce

  Ridgemont laughed and folded his long limbs into the chair he had vacated earlier. Despite the relaxed nature of the man, Benedict had the sense from the warning in the marquess’s gaze that he missed little and saw much. “I believe my reputation as a good host will remain intact. Provided I do not allow you near the pianoforte any time in the near future.”

  “I believe I can accommodate you there.”

  “Now, Miss Sutherland on the other hand,” Ridgemont said, leaning forward in his chair to better look at her. “You may sing to your heart’s content. You have a lovely voice.”

  Miss Sutherland’s gaze dropped to her hands. “Oh no. I believe that was my one and only performance.”

  “Ah, well then.” Ridgemont sat back in his chair and slapped a hand on his thigh. “We shall just have to make do with Cleveland’s incessant humming.”

  Benedict raised an eyebrow at the suggestion Ridgemont’s haughty butler did anything musical. “Cleveland hums? I find that hard to imagine.”

  “It may be more of a growl,” Ridgemont admitted. “It can be difficult to tell sometimes. Ah, there you are! I worried I had lost you in the crush.”

  Ridgemont stood and Benedict followed suit as Lady Henrietta, Lady Dalridge and Lord Pengrin entered the box.

  Pengrin shot him a hard look that drifted briefly to Miss Sutherland before returning to him. “Glenmor. What brings you up here?”

  “A brief visit.” He turned to the ladies and executed a smart bow. “Lady Dalridge, Lady Henrietta. You both look absolutely lovely. I hope you are enjoying the play.”

  Lady Dalridge scowled. “I have never cared much for Shakespeare. This performance has not changed my mind in that regard.”

  “Nonsense, Auntie. It has been quite entertaining. Are you here alone, Lord Glenmor?” Lady Henrietta smiled and her hand toyed with the curls at her neck, pulling them inward. Benedict forced his gaze away from the scars, not wanting to make the young lady any more self-conscious than she already was.

  “No, I have a seat below and am joined by Miss Sutherland’s cousin, Mr. Elmsley.”

  “You do not have a box?” Pengrin pretended to look surprised, though it was naught but a ruse, a way of pointing out Benedict’s rather unfortunate financial situation.

  “I do not. I am afraid I do not get to the theatre often enough to warrant it.”

  “A thrifty mindset,” Miss Sutherland said, her voice drifting up clear and strong next to him, coming to his defense. “We don’t see enough of that these days.”

  “I suppose you are in a far better place to judge that than I, Miss Sutherland,” Pengrin stated with a nod of his head and a gracious smile that did not fool Benedict for a moment.

  “Would you care to join us?” Ridgemont asked. “There are plenty of seats and I’m sure Miss Sutherland would love to have the company of her cousin, would you not?”

  He should say no. Spending time in Miss Sutherland’s company only hindered his goals, yet even as this truth flitted through his head, what came out of his mouth was something entirely different.

  “I would like that very much,” he said. “Let me go below and fetch Mr. Elmsley.”

  As he made to leave in search of Charlie, he determined he would use the time with the Harrows to consider Lady Henrietta as a viable prospect for his bride hunt. A boldfaced lie if he’d ever told one. How would he ever be able to pay notice to Lady Henrietta when every fiber of his being was all too aware of Miss Sutherland?

  It was a mission doomed to failure from the start.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Agony.

  There was no other word for it. She was in complete and utter agony. And forget the play. Despite using every last ounce of her willpower to keep her gaze trained on the stage, the players could have stripped down and paraded about in their underclothes and Judith would not have noticed.

  How could she? Trapped in a box at a theatre with the man she despised above all others positioned in front of her, and the man she wanted more than any other sitting next to her. And while she wished Lord Pengrin would burst into flames and be rendered to cinder and ash, it was her body that had been set afire from being so close to Lord Glenmor.

  When the evening began, she’d believed nothing could be worse than being forced to endure an evening in Lord Pengrin’s company, watching him use his false charms to draw Hen under his spell. She had been wrong. As it turned out, sitting like a mute statue while Lord Glenmor engaged Hen in conversation proved even more torturous.

  Not that he ignored her. He was very inclusive in his conversations and directed an equal number of comments her way. But it mattered little how much he spoke to her or what attentions he paid. She was not the one he was interested in. It was Hen. Or, more precisely, Hen’s dowry.

  To make matters worse, she had grown very fond of Hen over the weeks she’d spent as her companion, and despite Lord Glenmor’s reasons for marrying, she could say unequivocally that he would be a far better choice as husband then Lord Pengrin. Yet while she wanted the best for Hen, the idea of the two of them together soured in her belly and made her heart ache.

  Foolish, foolish girl! How had she allowed this to happen? Had she not promised herself she would refrain from falling for a gentleman’s charms? And a titled lord, at that! They had their own agendas, and they stuck to them.

  Still, Lord Glenmor, despite his title and his plan to marry for money rather than love, was nothing like Lord Pengrin. He was not greedy. He was simply desperate. An emotion she understood all too well. His past actions in helping her prevent Hen from becoming a spectacle at the hands of Lady Susan proved he was not mean-spirited. In truth, he had an innate kindness within him, a gentleness that unnerved her, and a humor that made her smile in spite of herself.

  When he had looked at her earlier, it was as if they were the only two people in the theatre. The world even. She had not wanted it to end. And earlier, she was certain Lord Glenmor had been about to say something. Something rather important. Revealing. Potentially monumental. But Lord Ridgemont’s return had shattered the moment, scattering it like fine shards of glass on the floor at her feet.

  What had he wanted to tell her?

  The question plagued her for the rest of the evening making it impossible to concentrate on the play, or the conversation swirling around her. A haze had descended, pushing out the extraneous, leaving a distant whispering in her ear that was close enough to be heard, but too far away to be understood.

  An eternity later, the play finally ended and Charlie and Lord Glenmor said their good-byes. She longed to go with them, to return home to the Elmsley’s townhouse on Chesterfield Street and burrow into the bed she’d often shared with Patience when they were younger and her father would allow her the occasional trip to London. Back then, the city had seemed a magical place filled with all kinds of enchantments. Now, it was only a reminder of her downfall and humiliation.

  She had been wrong to return, to take this position, but she could not turn back now. Not while Lord Pengrin had Hen in his sights. The despicable viscount may have the rest of them fooled, but Judith had seen how truly black his heart was. How could she abandon Hen, knowing if she fell under his spell, it would lead to pain and heartbreak? The young woman had suffered enough in her life. Judith would not allow her to suffer more if she was in a position to prevent it.

  “Each time we are together, I am more and more certain he has feelings for me,” Hen said as they returned home and made their way to her room. Judith had waved off Lady Henrietta’s maid. She needed time alone with her in the hope of dissuading her infatuation with Lord Pengrin, but it appeared the viscount and already entrenched himself in her affections and the mountain Judith must scale proved far higher and rockier than she’d anticipated.

  “Has he said as much?” She stood behind Hen and undid the long line of buttons along the back of her dress. It was easier to speak to her from this vantage point. Less of a chance she would realize her warnings came from first
hand experience.

  “Not in so many words, but he has made claims to my beauty on several occasions. Imagine that!”

  As Judith worked the buttons free, the remnants of the burns Hen had suffered became visible, rippling over her skin until it appeared unnaturally smooth in some areas, as if stretched too tight, then covered with angry welts in others. She claimed the scars did not cause her much pain any longer, but Judith found it hard to believe.

  “Why would he not make such claims?” she asked.

  Hen glanced over her shoulder. “Forgive me, Judith, but you can’t possibly understand. You have no scars marking your body, turning you into a monster.”

  “You are not a monster, Hen!” Her claim stoked Judith’s anger. Despite the physical reminder of what she had suffered, Hen’s beauty could not be denied. How long would it take for the young woman to realize this and not allow others to make the determination for her? “You are lovely both inside and out. These marks on your body are nothing more than part of your story. They are not the sum of who you are and anyone who thinks so is not worthy of your attention.”

  A sad smile touched the corners of Hen’s mouth. “It is the scars that keep me from getting the type of attention I want, and instead, make me a spectacle. Yet Lord Pengrin does not make me feel that way. He makes me feel like…a woman. He makes me feel like the scars are not there.”

  The ground Judith stood upon shifted. She was losing the battle in keeping Hen from being taken in by Lord Pengrin. If it were any other man, she would believe the sentiments he spouted to Hen, because they were true. She was beautiful. She was lovely. How could she argue otherwise? To do so would be to say Hen was everything she feared—ugly, not worthy of love, a monster.

  Lord Pengrin played a cunning game and excelled at it. He gave Hen exactly what she longed for—someone who saw beyond the scars to what lay beneath. Was that not what he had done to Judith? Made her feel beautiful? She’d spent her life feeling plain in comparison to Patience, whose beauty and vivacious personality made her stand out in any crowd, big or small. While Judith, with her quiet, more reserved nature, had always faded into the background.

  Lord Pengrin had seen past that, however. He had singled her out. Made her feel beautiful. Special. Loved. Then he’d betrayed her and left her humiliated, feeling as if her near ruin was all her fault. If he married Hen, what then? Likely, he would reap the rewards of her family connections and substantial dowry, then cast her aside like an afterthought, returning to his wicked ways. The probability did not paint a pretty picture of Hen’s future.

  Judith rested her hands on Hen’s shoulders. “We all have scars. Some of us carry them on the outside, where they are more visible. Others of us carry them on the inside. But they are there nonetheless, and every bit as present as the ones you can see with the naked eye.”

  “And where are your scars, Judith?” Hen turned around and let the gown fall to her feet. The welts on her body traveled over her right shoulder, thin tendrils where the flame had licked her tender skin to leave its mark before crawling up the side of her neck. Hen had admitted the fire had burned most of her hair off until she’d looked like a boy for the better part of a year while it grew back. Now, it reached down her back in soft, silky waves any woman would be thrilled to have, yet she used it as nothing more than a shield to hide the parts that she could not fix.

  Judith did not answer Hen’s inquiry. She couldn’t. Giving voice to what Lord Pengrin had done, reliving those moments when her own actions brought her the greatest humiliation, were beyond her ability.

  “Come now. I know you have them. You have seen mine.” Hen waved her hand at her neck. “Something has brought you here and I do not think it is your bid for freedom and independence as you claim.”

  “What is wrong with independence and freedom?”

  Hen smiled. “Nothing at all. Except it is a false claim. You live here in my brother’s home, basically at my disposal. Is that independence? Freedom? Yet you stay, and I cannot help but feel you are hiding from something.”

  “Then I suppose you have your answer,” Judith said. “My scars are on the inside.”

  “And will you not tell me what they are? Can I not help you overcome them as you have helped me?”

  Tears hovered in the corners of Judith’s eyes until Hen’s image blurred. She quickly blinked them away. “No. I’m afraid what’s done is done. The only thing I can do is learn from them and move forward as best I can.”

  Except that she wasn’t moving forward, was she? She was hiding—from her humiliation. From the fear of being blindsided by her heart and falling into such a trap yet again. No matter how much she tried to claim she wanted independence and to strike out on her own, the truth of it was she was not brave enough to face the world again. To put herself out there. To put her heart in danger.

  “And what have you learned?”

  That love could be feigned. That her heart was not to be trusted. That certain kinds of hurt lingered far longer than the event that created them.

  “I have learned that being a lady’s companion suits me quite well,” she said, smiling past the knots in her insides as the memories of her humiliation assaulted her from every side.

  This was not a lesson she wanted Hen to learn if there was way she could prevent it. And yet to prevent it, she may need to do the one thing she feared most—expose her own humiliation.

  * * *

  Hawksmoor raised his eyebrows at Marcus Bowen’s rather firm and direct request that he divulge what information he possessed about Crowley’s apparent disappearance and the silent partner Benedict had been saddled with.

  “That sounds very much like an order, Mr. Bowen.”

  “Does it?” Marcus grinned and looked over at Benedict. The man’s ease at dealing with the rather enigmatic and disreputable Hawksmoor surprised him. Then again, the more he got to know Marcus Bowen, the more Benedict realized the adage was true. Still waters did, indeed, run deep.

  Marcus rested his billiards cue on the table, the game having ended with Hawksmoor the victor, though now that Benedict knew what to look for, he realized Marcus had directed the contest to the desired outcome the entire time. Had Hawksmoor seen it too? It seemed unlikely the man often referred to as The Hawk would have missed it.

  “Yes, it does.” Hawksmoor’s gaze traveled to Benedict and settled there. “What is it about Crowley that interests you so? He is a mundane little creature better left in the dark crevices of society he prefers to frequent. As for this silent partner you refer to, I’m certain the same is true.”

  “Crowley is the gatekeeper of the investment my uncle entered into before his death, an investment I continued with and now wish to extricate myself from. A feat I cannot accomplish if I cannot find Crowley and discover the identity of my silent partner.”

  “I take it maintaining this partnership will leave you in rather desperate circumstances. Am I correct?”

  Benedict shifted his stance while pride and humiliation reared within him. But this was not the time to put on a brave face and pretend all was well. Not if he wanted Hawksmoor’s assistance. If he held back, the viscount would know and likely be insulted enough to refuse to help. After all, there was nothing in it for him and the Hawk was not known for his altruistic nature.

  “It will,” Benedict admitted. Somehow, the admission made the weight on his shoulders a shade lighter. Ridiculous, since nothing had changed and even with Hawksmoor’s help, there was no guarantee anything would.

  “And you haven’t the smallest inkling of who this partner is? None?”

  “I do not.”

  Hawksmoor walked to the bar and poured a generous helping of brandy into the tumbler. “That seems a rather strange way to enter into a partnership.”

  “Such was not my doing. My late uncle entered into the partnership before his death. I merely inherited the circumstances.”

  “Hm.” Hawksmoor leaned against the solid, mahogany bar, its smooth surface shining
where lamplight spilled across it. How the man lived in such murk defied logic. The room, though large and beautifully furnished, held little in the way of natural light and the constant flickering from the lamps lit about the room created dancing shadows that gave no relief. It was as if the man lived in a cave. To hear Marcus tell it, he rarely left the gaming hell to join society since his brother’s tragic death years earlier.

  “As for Crowley,” Hawksmoor said. “He is a shady character, often preying upon gentlemen who find themselves in dire situations. Much like yourself. Or, as the case was, your uncle. When the late Lord Glenmor had exhausted his coffers, he used what was left to invest in the Western Trading Company. My understanding was that whoever this mysterious silent partner of his was, he also required an influx of cash, and used your uncle’s desperate desire to recapture his mistress’s affections to lure him in with promises of swift and large returns.”

  Hawksmoor’s understanding of Uncle Henry’s decisions and the reasons behind them did nothing to improve Benedict’s mood. He loathed being kept in the dark. If Uncle Henry had only come to him, he could have counseled prudence. “Then you know who this silent partner is?”

  Hawksmoor took a slow draw on his brandy but refrained from answering.

  “Hawk?” Marcus prodded.

  “What is in this for me, exactly? You come here, drink my brandy, take up my time, ask me questions, then demand answers, and yet I fail to see what any of this has to do with me or why I should help you.”

  Benedict twisted his mouth to one side. This did not bode well. “I suppose suggesting you do so out of the goodness of your heart would be asking too much?”

  Hawksmoor raised one dark eyebrow. “That would be insinuating I have one. As I’m sure you’ve heard, such is not the case.”

  “What do you want? Money?” If so, Benedict might as well cut his losses now and leave. He had nothing to offer in that regard and he doubted Hawksmoor would care much for being paid in gratitude.