It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  In fact, he was still doing his best at not making public scenes at all. Thus far, it was working. A fortnight had passed without his name in the scandal columns. Fourteen blessed days without a caricature of some private moment passed all over town.

  This was definitely not the moment for a public chat with the Grenvilles. Even without the middle sister. Besides, the other two were having too splendid an afternoon for him to ruin it by reminding them of a time they were unhappy.

  Another day, then.

  Even as he made the resolution not to interrupt, a third bonnet joined the others. The delightfully outspoken middle sister. Perhaps the Grenville sisters’ perfect afternoon was about to be spoiled.

  As he watched, however, the eyes of the eldest and youngest sisters brightened at her approach. The middle sister was far from sour-faced today. She made amusing expressions and gesticulated wildly as she regaled her sisters with a tale apparently so hilarious that it made the youngest chit hiccup with laughter.

  Guilt pricked Michael’s conscience. He regretted speaking so harshly to the middle sister. No one deserved to be insulted in one’s own home. Nor did the chit seem at all prone to a churlish disposition. He frowned. The only person Michael had ever heard refer to her in a negative manner was Phineas Mapleton—who was hardly an unbiased source of factual information.

  What if it truly had been Michael who had spoiled the mood? One person’s rudeness did not give him permission to respond in kind. He knew he’d spoken out of turn because of an incredibly rotten day. But perhaps she had, too. Perhaps their sharp-tongued encounter had simply been the last straw in a long day for both of them.

  He straightened his cravat. The young lady deserved an honest apology. And perhaps catching her in a pleasant humor was exactly the right time for both of them.

  Before the women could slip out of sight, he stepped out from under the awning and hurried through the bustling street to catch up to them.

  The closer he got, the more struck he was by the sisters’ similarities and their differences.

  From a distance, one might be forgiven for confusing one young lady for the other. They were all dark-haired, curvy creatures of a similar height, with high cheekbones and upturned noses and cupid’s bow mouths.

  Up close, however, it was impossible to confuse the sisters.

  The middle sister was sharp-eyed and dangerously perceptive. Her animated expressions tended toward the ironic, and her quick, subtle movements gave the sense that she was always alert to her surroundings. He couldn’t help but wonder the reason for her heightened vigilance.

  The youngest sister’s eyes held nothing but mischief. Her confidence was almost a swagger, as if she took nothing seriously, least of all herself. But wide-eyed sarcasm and easy laughter made her far too easy to underestimate. He suspected there was more intelligence beneath her bonnet than she liked to let on.

  But the green-eyed eldest, on the other hand, was the most mysterious of the three. Somehow, she’d managed to acquire either no particular reputation whatsoever—or that of a perfect little mouse. Yet she sang for strangers and had sprung to defend her sister with the ferocity of a tigress.

  Not only that, but what on earth had she been doing unchaperoned in the remotest corner of Hyde Park? Had it been any other woman, he might have suspected an assignation underway, but there had been no other souls around. Not to mention her unorthodox adieu had included a quotation from the Bible. At the time, he had thought her religious beliefs were what kept her in the shadows, but now…

  Intrigued, Michael allowed his gaze to linger. He hadn’t the least idea what went on inside her head. To his surprise, he wished he did. She wasn’t nearly as easy to label as “the mischievous sister” and “the blunt-spoken sister” seemed to be. Perhaps none of them were, and it was folly to even try. He should simply apologize and move on.

  Just as he was about to call out to them, a carriage rattled by, cutting off his view for a frustrating moment.

  When the wheels had cleared, the sisters were just turning onto Piccadilly. The bonnets of the eldest and the youngest were angled toward each other, rather than the road. But the middle sister’s gaze snapped to Michael as if she’d sniffed him on the wind.

  The chill in her dark eyes froze him right where he stood.

  He debated how best to proceed. Perhaps… now was not the time to apologize after all. He smiled and waved his fingers in a tentative greeting.

  She curled her lip in obvious distaste, turned her back without bothering to acknowledge the greeting, and stalked off behind her sisters.

  That answered at least one question, he decided wryly. He should definitely find a less public place for his apology.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had observed him losing a silent duel with a mere slip of a girl. The caricaturists would roast him for weeks. His shoulders relaxed.

  No one was watching, save for the Transfiguration figures in the painted glass windows of St. James church.

  Once again, his mind returned to the eldest Grenville sister.

  What Bible passage had she quoted to him? Genesis, chapter fifteen, verse… nine, was it? He did not pretend to be unaware of his reputation as a rakehell, but she would have no reason to all but accuse him of practicing adultery. He hesitated.

  Perhaps there was more context to that passage than he had gathered from all the “pain he hath wrought” and “shall burn in hells” she had so gleefully quoted.

  He ducked into the church and made his way up through the twin rows of walled pews to the altar beneath the arched wooden ceiling. Before anyone could note Lord Wainwright’s unprecedented interest in scripture, he flipped the Bible’s pages to Genesis until he found chapter fifteen, verse nine.

  Bring me an heifer of three years old, and a she-goat of three years old, and a ram of three years old, and a turtledove, and a young pigeon.

  What? He paused, blinked, then read it again in disbelief.

  Heifer.

  She-goat.

  Young pigeon.

  Strangled laughter burst from his throat as he quickly closed the Bible and stepped away from the altar. He had been had, and good. By none other than an alleged green-eyed mouse. Who was obviously nothing at all of the kind. He shook his head in appreciation.

  Only one thing was certain.

  There was far more to Miss Grenville—and her entire musical family—than met the eye.

  Chapter Twelve

  The following afternoon, Camellia joined her family at Astley’s Royal Amphitheater on Westminster Bridge Road, just south of Charing Cross. Excitement buzzed through her veins as all six of them filed through the entrance. She had never before attended a circus, and was very much looking forward to experiencing the show.

  Based on the cheers of a thousand other spectators crowding the two-foot-high circle and hanging over the balconies of the four-story amphitheater, she was far from alone in her excitement. A thrill went through her at the sight of so many people in one place.

  The primary circus was to take place in an enormous center ring in front of the orchestra and a huge square curtain. At some point, the billowing black fabric would swish aside to display a fine stage, upon which vignettes would be performed between acts.

  The secondary circus was even larger, and would take place in the dozens of spectator boxes encircling the arena. Camellia gazed about in awe. One could easily believe every class and corner of London represented amongst the crowded rows of curved wooden benches.

  As a gift to his daughters, Camellia’s father had procured seats in one of the few semi-private orchestra boxes on either side of the main stage. Their entire family filled the second of two long benches: Camellia’s brother Heath, followed by Father, Mother, Dahlia, Bryony, and herself.

  Normally, such up-close seats were reserved for the crème de la crème of society—or, at least, those who could afford the additional cost. Today was no exception.

  The row ahead of them containe
d none other than Lady Pettibone, a formidable matron who ruled the ton with her imperial aura and exacting standards. Her well-to-do nieces Lady Roundtree and Lady Upchurch joined her with twin expressions of genteel disdain for the common rabble overflowing the cheaper sections. Camellia could only imagine what such esteemed individuals thought of a mere baron and his family.

  To the left of the three society ladies sat a trio of well-dressed gentlemen. First, next to Lady Roundtree, was Phineas Mapleton. Beside Mapleton was the handsome marquess Lord Hawkridge. On the other side, seated directly in front of Camellia… sat the distracting Lord Wainwright.

  Heaven save her. She tried not to watch him, but he was impossible to ignore.

  Even as the orchestra began to play a rousing opening number, her gaze was not on the talented flautists and energetic violinists but rather drawn inexorably to wide, masculine shoulders encased in an indigo tailcoat that looked soft enough to touch.

  Not that Camellia would dare reach for him. In fact, it was fortuitous indeed that it was she and not Dahlia who sat behind him, or the earl might have found himself shoved unceremoniously from his exalted bench to the sawdust floor.

  Fortuitous seating arrangements for Lord Wainwright, that was. For Camellia, it was torture.

  She meant to watch the tragedians and comedians, the riding-masters standing on horseback, the contortionists—really she did. But it was difficult to focus on crackling whips and clowns diving through hoops when the attention of every woman in the crowd was directed right at the handsome earl mere inches in front of Camellia.

  Her muscles tightened. She hoped the women hanging over the balconies opposite took care not to swoon, lest they tumble onto the horse-fouled sawdust below. Her gaze returned to the handsome earl whose spotless tailcoat was so close to her knees.

  What must Lord Hawkridge think of playing second fiddle to Lord Wainwright’s conspicuous popularity? She frowned in thought. The marquess was on the hunt for a fortune… or, at least, a fine-blooded heiress. Perhaps he hoped some portion of the attention the earl attracted would reflect back onto himself.

  As for Phineas Mapleton, Camellia suspected the self-important gossip had yet to realize that he wasn’t the gentleman all the ladies were cooing at. Mapleton believed his ability to afford Brummell’s tailor elevated him to the same echelon of acclaim and respect, when in fact all it did was emphasize the difference.

  If it were up to her, the man would never receive an invitation to her family musicales again.

  She tilted her head at the mismatched front row in consideration. Did Lord Wainwright always gad about with souls considered lesser catches, or was this afternoon’s company merely a coincidence?

  Perhaps the fawning ladies were right, and the earl did not distinguish by class or standing due to a kindhearted nature. Or perhaps the envious men were right, and the unrepentant rake carefully arranged his backdrops to make himself look even better.

  Whatever the motive, it was certainly working. No feat by the horsemen caused more palpitations of the heart, no daredevil tumble by any clown caused more smiles than Lord Wainwright had by merely gracing the amphitheater with his presence.

  She wished she could see his expression. Not because of any desire to gaze upon an outrageously handsome face, of course, but to gauge what the man himself might be thinking.

  Was his focus upon the droll comedians and dramatic tragedians? Or did the earl content himself with batting his sinfully long lashes at his legion of rosy-cheeked admirers? Was he thinking something else entirely?

  By the time the curtain fell for intermission, Camellia was so irritated at her inability to watch anything besides Wainwright’s muscled shoulders that she was half-tempted to request a second curtain be raised between his bench and hers.

  Determined not to become engaged in conversation with anyone in the first row, she turned toward her sisters.

  “What do you think?” she asked brightly. “Have you ever seen such a show?”

  Dahlia’s eyes shone. “It was marvelous! I’m thinking of bringing my girls next week. They deserve a bit of fun.”

  Camellia lifted her brows in surprise. “Can the school afford tickets? Even penny seats become expensive when adding hack fare and all the other little costs.”

  Her sister’s cheeks flushed. “As it happens, I’ve received an anonymous donation that will keep us afloat for another month at least.”

  “Why, Dahlia, that’s splendid!” Camellia leaned back, as much filled with relief as pride for her sister’s ability as headmistress. “How did that come about?”

  “Anonymously.” Dahlia cleared her throat and turned back toward their mother before any additional questions could be asked.

  Camellia and Bryony exchanged thoughtful glances.

  Bryony lifted a shoulder. “I told you she’s been mysterious lately. There is no chance the donation is anonymous. I’m still hoping she’s become mistress to a rich but rugged ostler or perhaps a dashing pirate.”

  Camellia shook her head. “Why would there be a pirate in the middle of London?”

  “Ostler, then.” Bryony tilted her head toward the center ring. “Now that I’ve seen what a riding-master can do on horseback, I’ve no doubt a young, handsome one could steal a lady’s heart.”

  “I should hope the three of us aren’t so silly that our heads could be turned by nothing more substantial than a pretty face,” Camellia said lightly.

  At least, she hoped her sisters were the strong ones.

  “What else is there?” Bryony’s blue eyes sparkled. “There’s one in particular I fancy, although I’m sure Mother wouldn’t thank me for the scandal.”

  Camellia couldn’t keep her gaze from flicking toward the rakish earl. “Please don’t tell me it’s…”

  “Oh, heavens no. Dahlia would disown me for exchanging glances with that man, much less stolen kisses. Besides, the scoundrel I have in mind is…” Bryony gave an exaggerated shiver of pleasure. “My secret.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Camellia chastised her. “You cannot tell me you would dare keep such a secret from your elder sis—”

  The curtain flew open and the second half of the circus began.

  Probably.

  Camellia couldn’t quite determine what delights were unfolding in the center ring, because once again her damnable eyes would not quit their focus on the earl in front of her. He had just turned toward his companion, and in the brief moment in which she caught his profile, the earl had smiled.

  Her breath caught.

  Even though that slow, breathtaking smile had been aimed at the marquess at his side and not the row of Grenvilles behind him, she had felt its impact from her stockings to her bodice.

  Little wonder the man got away with murder. No one could possibly keep a single thought in her head when faced with that knowing, devastating smile and those gorgeous hazel eyes.

  She distrusted him even more by the second.

  And yet, curse him, she couldn’t make herself look away.

  By the time the final curtain closed, she was all but ready to flee from the amphitheater back into the safety of their carriage. Courtesy and simple logistics, however, dictated that she file sedately behind her sisters as they followed their parents toward the door of the private orchestra box.

  Just as it was finally Camellia’s turn to exit, a passing groom tripped over a fallen broom. A bucket of muddy mop water in his hands flew from his arms. Its contents slopped to the ground in a growing puddle of rancid goo right at the box exit. Camellia and the entirety of the first row were now trapped inside until the mess could be cleared.

  Face flaming with embarrassment, the groom bowed to her and snatched the now-empty bucket from the lake of off-color liquid. “I’m so sorry, miss. A thousand apologies. I’ll clean this right up and have you on your way lickety-click, you’ll see. It won’t be but a moment.”

  He dashed away before she could answer, presumably in search of tools with which to mop up the spi
ll.

  Several feet ahead, Camellia’s family had paused to wait. They paid little attention to the temporary delay, and instead seemed locked in some sort of debate involving emphatic gesticulation on the part of her father and brother, interposed with nervous handwringing by her mother.

  Which left Camellia to fend for herself against the three most influential society matrons, the single most judgmental gossip of the ton, a handsome marquess, and the rakish, arrogant earl she couldn’t get out of her mind.

  Full of trepidation, she turned to face the remaining members of the private box.

  “Miss Grenville?” gasped Lady Upchurch in disbelief. “How did I miss that you were right behind us? You have the loveliest singing voice of anyone I have ever heard.”

  “You might have missed her because Miss Grenville very politely wasn’t singing during the circus,” Lady Roundtree pointed out.

  Camellia smiled weakly. On stage, she knew just what to do. Off stage, there was no script to follow. No curtain to end the scene.

  “More’s the pity. Your singing voice is second to none.” Lord Hawkridge touched his hat. “Miss Grenville, you truly are far better than the current reigning soprano.”

  Lord Wainwright’s brows lifted appraisingly. “In that case, she would be an international phenomenon at the opera.”

  Camellia’s teeth gritted at the earl’s choice to speak about her, rather than to her, despite standing less than an arm’s width away.

  “Miss Grenville? Part of the opera?” Lady Upchurch recoiled in horror. “Obviously she mustn’t join the theater, Wainwright. Think of her reputation! Why, we’d never be able to associate with a Grenville again.”

  Indeed. Camellia bared her teeth in a false smile.

  The earl had managed to link her name and, by extension, her entire family to the possibility of reputation-ruining scandal right in front of two of society’s most uppity busybodies as well as the grand dame colloquially known as the “old dragon” due to her ability to destroy the standing of society hopefuls in the space of a single breath.