It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  “You will not return to thievery.” Camellia marched into the room, her tone final. The threat was real.

  When Dahlia was much younger, she had once been caught stealing food and garment scraps earmarked for the rubbish bin and delivering them to rookery orphanages instead. Their parents had very nearly disowned her. They asserted that neither sculleries nor rookeries were the place for a lady.

  “It’s not thievery when it’s trash,” Dahlia insisted. “If the rich have no use for their rubbish, why not give it to someone who does?”

  “Fair point.” Bryony nodded slowly. “We cannot let her wards starve or sell themselves in the streets. Lord Wainwright has ruined the only chance to raise reputable money. What else is she supposed to do?”

  “Nothing.” Camellia tightened her fingers in determination. “I will handle it.”

  “How?” Dahlia’s shoulders slumped. “There is no other way to raise money. My funds will be dry within the next month.”

  Camellia took a deep breath. She would handle it. She had been saving her sisters for years. This might well be her last chance to do so. She squared her shoulders. “I shall ask my husband for the money.”

  “Your what?” A pile of wrinkled correspondence fell from Dahlia’s lap as she shoved her writing desk aside. “What husband?”

  “It is my honor to inform you…” Camellia struggled to keep the hitch from her voice. “It seems Father has betrothed me to a mature, respectable stranger in want of a mature, respectable wife. In six weeks’ time, I will be Mrs. Bost.”

  “What?” Dahlia repeated in a horrified whisper. “Cam, no.”

  “Mother assures me his accounts are quite flush. Since he has no particular need for my dowry, certainly he can spare a portion for a worthy cause.”

  “You cannot mean to marry him.” Bryony’s countenance was pale.

  “What choice do we have? The marriage contract is being drawn up now. If at least one good thing can come of it…” Camellia swallowed. “Even if he has no wish to become a permanent patron, with luck his donation will carry the school forward until Dahlia can attract new funding.”

  “Damn that Lord Wainwright.” Bryony’s eyes flashed. “This is all his fault. Why couldn’t he have left us alone?”

  “Watch your tongue,” Dahlia said tonelessly. Her shoulders curved. “Ladies shouldn’t curse. Or steal rubbish. Or betroth themselves to save someone else.”

  Camellia eased down onto the fainting couch and hoped she wouldn’t need it. “Tell me what happened. Why would Lord Wainwright wish to dismantle a deportment school? What exactly did he do?”

  “He doesn’t know the first thing about my school.” Dahlia’s lips flattened. “The brute managed to jeopardize the entire enterprise simply by being the sort of person he is: a rich, handsome, frivolous rake.”

  Camellia reared back, aghast. “He didn’t even realize what he’d done?”

  “Do rakehells ever?” Dahlia rubbed her temples. “I was at Lady Kingsley’s dinner party. I would still be there now, but I couldn’t bring myself to stay after…” Her gaze unfocused. “The ladies at the table have supported many charitable causes over the years, and had agreed to help fund mine. We were just finalizing the details when Lord Wainwright strode into our midst.”

  Bryony twisted her lips. “All it takes is a single glance from his entrancing hazel eyes and every woman in the room starts fluttering her fan to her bosom to calm her racing heart. You know what he’s like. So handsome it’s hard to breathe.”

  Like her sisters and the rest of the ton, Camellia had once been just such a ninny. Every debutante dreamed of dancing with the rakish earl. The spinsters and the widows dreamed of far more. Caricaturists from Gillray to Cruikshank delighted in chronicling the swath Lord Wainwright cut through the seas of heaving bosoms. Now that the war with Napoleon was over and Beau Brummel had fled to France, the scandal columns had little else to report than the foibles of the ton.

  Camellia wished so many of the caricatures didn’t also happen to be true.

  “Let me guess,” she said with a sigh. “One heated gaze from his angelic visage and those featherbrains forgot they were in the midst of a conversation that had nothing to do with a man.”

  “Worse.” Dahlia sighed. “He told them he was dazzled by all their beauty and accomplishments already, and asked why they would want to create more competition for themselves.”

  Camellia gasped. “Destitute girls aren’t competition. They’re children.”

  “My students will never attend a ton soirée no matter how high the marks they score in deportment,” Dahlia agreed. “Lord Wainwright might have been teasing, but the effect was the same. Lady Upchurch was the first to withdraw her donation and declare herself far too clever to do such a foolish thing. After that, the others had no choice but to follow suit.”

  “What did Lord Wainwright say when he realized he’d placed the entire school in financial peril?”

  “He didn’t. He left the moment he set hearts a-flutter. We were not the only females in the room, and a rake does have to make his rounds.” Dahlia lifted her chin, her eyes hard. “Someone really ought to take that man down a peg or two.”

  A part of Camellia couldn’t help but agree. She did not condone vindictive behavior, but at the very least a man with that much power over his peers should be made to understand how deeply his thoughtlessness could affect others. Instead, his shamelessly rakehell ways were fêted by the gentlemen and cooed after by the ladies. She curled her lip. He was exactly the sort of self-centered, arrogant scoundrel that she despised the most.

  “I agree.” Bryony retrieved her forgotten curling tongs and frowned at her reflection. “I hope I get to be the one. Wainwright deserves it.” She made a sappy expression over her shoulder. “Although… When we’re done taking him down a peg, a girl might consider unbuttoning that chiseled chest a button or two while she’s at it.”

  Dahlia’s eyes flashed. “If you so much as smile at that insufferable rake, I shall never speak to you again.”

  “Never fear,” Bryony assured her quickly. “I would never flirt with any bounder who hurt my sister. Instead, I shall console myself with admiring the occasional manly form from afar. Or perhaps many manly forms.” She gave a suggestive wink. “Tonight I am attending one of Lambley’s masquerades.”

  Camellia gasped in shock… and envy. A secret part of her often wished she could be as confident and carefree as her youngest sister. “You cannot mean one of the Duke of Lambley’s scandalous masquerades. Those gatherings are synonymous with hedonistic abandon. If anyone finds out you attended, your reputation—”

  “It’s a masquerade,” Bryony pointed out. “No one recognizes anyone. That’s the whole point… and a perfect distraction. I have been waiting to hear back from my solicitor for so long, I shall go mad without a diversion.”

  Camellia opened her mouth to respond, then changed her mind. They could all do with a diversion. Whoever Bryony’s solicitor was, he would be unlikely to come up with a fast solution for the financial situation at Dahlia’s school. But as long as Camellia managed to talk her soon-to-be fiancé into donating as soon as they were married, perhaps it would buy enough time for a more permanent solution to be found.

  “The masquerade is tonight?” she asked instead. There was no point asking how Bryony had wrangled one of the limited, coveted invitations. Camellia’s youngest sister was a force of nature.

  “Midnight.” Bryony glanced at the clock on the mantel and grimaced. “Which gives me less than three hours to curl my uncurlable hair, dress in my most shocking gown—specially commissioned just for this occasion—and finally discover precisely what goes on at those infamous parties.”

  A knock sounded upon the door.

  Dahlia sprang up from the window seat and raced to answer. “Perhaps someone has changed her mind about the donations.”

  A footman stood in the corridor with a folded missive upon a platter. “A letter has arrived for Miss B
ryony.”

  Dahlia trudged back across the room and slumped against the window without another word.

  “It’s my solicitor!” Bryony’s face lit up, then immediately fell. “There’s a small window of opportunity for us to speak, but only if we meet at once.” She groaned. “It seems I am not going to a masquerade. I’m going to a barrister’s office.” She glanced up at her sisters. “One of you needs to use my invitation. It was too hard to come by to let the opportunity go to waste. And then of course you must describe everything you see. I shall be suffering in abject envy.”

  For a fleeting moment, Camellia wished she were both foolish enough and fearless enough to say yes. She forced herself to remain silent. Sometimes it was difficult to shake off such bouts of wistfulness, but she would be a married woman soon and ought to act like one. No matter how little pleasure the notion brought.

  Dahlia shook her head. “The last thing I’m in a humor for is a party. I intend to stay hunched over a desk, scouring each page of Debrett’s Peerage until I scrounge up a few new names to cover the ones Lord Wainwright turned away.”

  “Then Cam wins.” Bryony thrust the invitation away from her face as if its proximity caused physical pain. “Take it before I decide to cancel the solicitor. A masquerade can be life changing.”

  “I can’t.” Camellia backed away from her sister’s outstretched hand. “You could go another time.”

  “There won’t be another time.” Bryony’s voice was urgent. “Repeat invitations are only given to guests who accept the previous invitation. You have no idea how scarce this opportunity is. You have to go.”

  “I cannot,” Camellia repeated, trying not to stammer. “What if someone recognized me?”

  “They will not be able to. You’ll wear a mask the entire night, like everyone else.” Bryony pushed the invitation into Camellia’s hand. “In the extremely unlikely event that some bloodhound catches a Grenville scent, just claim you’re me. It’ll be too dark to discern eye color, and we’ve all got the same dark hair.”

  “No one would believe it was you anyway,” Dahlia added from the window seat. “The only public routs you attend are when Mother forces you to sing at the family soirée musicale.”

  “Nobody forces her,” Bryony objected hotly. “Cam likes to sing. Everyone likes it when she sings. From the moment she opens her mouth, no one even notices my violin. She’s more talented than anyone we’ve ever seen at Drury Lane, you must admit.”

  “The point is, Cam wouldn’t know that because she never leaves this house. She’s as cloistered as a nun. Which means you’re right—no one would ever guess it was her.” Dahlia leaned forward as some of the sparkle returned to her eyes. “Say yes, Cam. You’ll be like a spinster spy. I cannot wait to hear your shocked, conservative observations.”

  The warmth Camellia felt at their compliments vanished at “spinster spy.” Six-and-twenty was older than the average debutante, but still a far cry from some stooping, elderly aunt. She bit back a terse reply about which of them ought to be cloistered. Her sisters were only one and two years younger than her, but sometimes it felt like a lifetime.

  A lifetime of wasted opportunities, she realized belatedly. Of comporting herself as a lady was meant to behave, or a daughter, or an elder sister, or a spinster, or anything at all except however Camellia herself might wish. Soon she would be trading all that in for the role of wife. Another prescribed set of rules and regulations to govern her every word and thought.

  Being someone else for a few hours first was tempting, indeed.

  “It’s an absurd idea,” she said instead. “No one would ever believe it.”

  “Of course it’s an absurd idea,” Dahlia agreed. “That does not mean you shouldn’t do it. There won’t be a second chance. Unless you think Mr. Bost is likely to take you to scandalous masquerades?”

  Mature, respectable Mr. Bost wasn’t likely to take her anywhere but Northumberland. A world away from her sisters… and adventure.

  Camellia hesitated. As a girl, she had never once done anything rebellious. And she wasn’t betrothed yet. Not for a few more weeks.

  Yet, much as she would like to have a mad night of freedom, she could not make herself agree to the scheme. It was reckless. Irresponsible. Wild. Everything Camellia had never been and suddenly longed to be, more than anything.

  “I wish I could,” she said softly. “I’m afraid I shall have to be brave and prepare for my future position as Mrs. Bost. It will be far easier to accept my destiny than to tempt fate with risky behavior.”

  “Bravery isn’t what you do when it’s easy,” Bryony said in surprise. “Bravery is what you do when it’s hard.”

  Camellia sent her a dubious look.

  “I tend to think all Bryony’s ideas are terrible,” Dahlia put in slowly. “But if you would truly go… then I think you ought. Shouldn’t we accept destiny only once we know what the choices are?”

  Camellia hugged herself. “A masquerade cannot change one’s destiny. Destiny means no choice.”

  “Then why not go?” Bryony held up a stunning ball gown with puffed sleeves, a plunging neckline, and yards of sumptuous sky blue silk. “I daresay this will attract more intriguing options than any dance card at Almack’s.”

  Dahlia let out a slow whistle as Bryony turned about with the dress. “All of the options deliciously wicked, one supposes.”

  Bryony winked. “Only if Cam’s lucky.”

  “I don’t feel lucky,” she admitted. Yet her skin tingled as if the night were already touched with magic. “I feel as if I only have a month to live.”

  Bryony grinned. “Then make the most of it.”

  “I’m going to regret this,” Camellia muttered as she succumbed to temptation. She flung her arms wide in dramatic fashion. “Dress me like I’m a princess in a fairy story. Tonight, I will pretend to be someone else.”

  Dahlia squealed as loud as Bryony and leapt from the window seat to help with the transformation.

  In their younger days, all three sisters had spent countless hours dressing each other in old, elegant outfits their mother no longer wore, and dressing each other’s hair in minute, elaborate styles.

  Although they had since grown into young women with designated ladies’ maids to mind their appearances, they could not risk one of the servants discovering their plans. Camellia would have to trust that her sisters would do it right.

  She let them outfit her as befit the occasion, from the satin ribbons holding up her silk stockings to the rakish ostrich feather curving over a pile of ringlets they’d curled in her hair.

  When at last they declared her properly attired for a masquerade, the woman staring back at Camellia in the looking glass no longer resembled the inconspicuous, forgettable wallflower she had been for the previous six-and-twenty years.

  The masked lady with the rouged full lips and voluptuous sapphire blue gown would catch the attention of any gentleman in possession of a heartbeat. Camellia’s pulse raced at the shocking difference.

  “I don’t look like a story princess,” she gasped, light-headed. “I look like a seductress of loose morals.”

  “Perfect!” Bryony exclaimed in delight. “You’re going to a licentious masquerade full of rakish gentlemen and night birds of loose morals. You want to blend in.”

  “Dance scandalously close with anyone you fancy,” Dahlia added with a wink. “Just mind not to lose your mask.”

  Chapter Three

  Camellia alighted from the hackney cab with a flutter of nervous excitement. The hired hack had been stuck in the queue of carriages inching toward the Lambley ducal residence for almost an hour. The mere act of arriving had taken so long that her initial trepidation had been replaced by impatience.

  Before tonight, she had been so focused on staying inconspicuous that she’d failed to live her life while she’d still had the freedom to do so. Now that she had committed to stealing a few hours of anonymity, it was all she could do not to race up the duke’s front st
eps and immerse herself in the crowd of masked revelers.

  But first, she had to get past the gatekeeper at the door.

  In order to verify each guest’s invitation, only one set of passengers at a time was allowed to disembark each carriage. Camellia was all alone as she strode toward the entrance with what she hoped was the relaxed, confident stride of a frequent party guest and not the half-terrified nervous mince of a shy wallflower impersonating her vivacious younger sister.

  The door swung open as she reached the final step.

  A chestnut-haired man with a black mask and a friendly smile welcomed her inside a marble vestibule with a small fire and a large crystal chandelier.

  He closed the door, then held out a white-gloved hand. “Invitation, please.”

  Camellia’s fingers shook as she retrieved the embossed parchment from her reticule and placed it into his hand.

  The doorkeeper glanced down at the invitation, then up at her. He said nothing. He simply waited.

  Was there a secret passphrase? Sweat prickled at the nape of Camellia’s neck. Bryony hadn’t mentioned a secret passphrase. If Camellia were turned away at the door in front of an endless line of carriages… She gulped. It wouldn’t matter that no one could recognize her. Camellia would kill her sister anyway.

  “My apologies,” the man said, his voice flat. “You are not Bryony Grenville.”

  “I… Of course I am,” Camellia stammered. “Who else would I be?”

  The doorkeeper gazed back at her impassively.

  No. She had not come this far to quit this soon. She rolled back her shoulders with renewed determination. “I am absolutely Miss Grenville.”

  The man tilted his head to consider her anew.

  She tried not to melt into a puddle of nervous embarrassment at his scrutiny. It wasn’t working. She was about to be tossed out on her ear.

  “You are not Bryony,” he said slowly, “but you might well be a Miss Grenville. Take off your mask.”