The Taste of Temptation

by Julia Kelly

  Caroline let out a small, steady breath. “It is nothing I haven’t faced before.”

  “But you shouldn’t have to face it in my home,” said Mrs. Sullivan firmly.

  “Pay them no mind,” said Mrs. Weir, placing a comforting hand on Caroline’s arm.

  “Miss Carlson is right. I am the woman from the newspapers,” said Caroline.

  “But that isn’t all you are,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “Not by any measure.”

  “I fear that is all the gentlemen will see,” she said. Her chances of marrying seemed to be slipping away through her hands like grains of sand the longer she stayed unmarried. If Moray and his rotten band of newspapermen all intent on damaging her reputation had their way, she’d never find a husband.

  “Miss Burkett, I’m shocked at you,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

  “What?”

  “That you would give up so easily when we’ve hardly even started. That is not the behavior of the determined lady who came to my home just last week. Now,” the matchmaker said, straightening her shoulders, “do you plan to stand in this corner and feel sorry for yourself this evening, or do you wish to meet some of the most eligible men that this city has to offer?”

  Mrs. Weir laughed. “It’s best to say yes when she gets like this.”

  But Mrs. Sullivan was right. Caroline had a plan. She was not going to let her future be derailed by the Miss Carlsons of the world any more than she was going to allow Moray to cow her with his ridiculous newspaper articles and irritating, probing questions that set her on edge.

  “It’s been an age since I danced, and I should like very much not to sit again for the rest of the evening,” said Caroline.

  Mrs. Sullivan grinned. “That’s the stuff. Now, let’s find you another partner and see if we can’t make you the most intriguing lady in Edinburgh in the space of an evening.”

  Moray threw open the door to his office and tossed his dinner jacket onto the coatrack in the far corner of the room. All the commotion made Eva look up from the page she was proofing and frown.

  “I thought you were attending Mrs. Sullivan’s party,” she said.

  He tugged at his bow tie and unbuttoned the top of his high collar. “And I thought you had your own office.”

  She met his impertinence with her usual unamused look. “Technically yes, but you’ll notice I haven’t used it in years. I prefer it up here. I can keep an eye on you and make sure you aren’t getting up to any trouble. Now, about that party . . .”

  “I was just there.”

  His editor tipped her chin down to peer at him over her glasses. “But now you’re back.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wasn’t in the mood to dance.”

  She snorted. “When are you ever?”

  He knew the reels and Scottish country dances everyone was supposed to master, but he never stood up for anything other than a rare waltz. He’d learned the steps too late in life to ever become completely comfortable with them. That sort of ease was reserved for those who’d grown up with dancing masters and classes. Those who’d been born into privilege so that it came to them as naturally as breathing.

  Gavin was one of those men. Even in the depths of his genteel poverty as the second son of a baronet who wished to wipe his hands clean of him, his friend had been able to navigate the upper echelons of society with ease because he was one of them. Moray didn’t resent his friend for it, but he was acutely aware that no matter how much he read or learned or polished himself he’d never be one of them. He’d worked for not only his money but his social standing. He’d always have the stain of trade on him.

  That was why he’d snapped at Caroline. He wasn’t proud of it, but he couldn’t ignore years of reminders of his humble beginnings or the issue of his birth. He’d watched her throughout all ten courses, wondering if a woman like Caroline Burkett would ever have shown him the attention she did Trevlan if he’d been such a pompous ass. Probably not, for Trevlan, although not titled, came from an old family—old enough that time had washed away all reminders that their money had come from importing more than two hundred years ago and was kept healthy by the bank they owned. They even had a bloody castle in the Borders just outside Hawick. Trevlan, through no merit of his own, was exactly the sort of man an unmarried woman like Caroline might wish to spend a dinner party speaking to.

  “What’s the real reason you left early?” Eva asked, pulling him back to his office and the clatter of the press running off test pages for the coming morning’s edition of the Lothian.

  “Because I own and edit a newspaper. Two of them, and I should be here when the final pages come in.”

  This time she slid her glasses off and stared at him hard. “I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but I am capable of doing the job for which you pay me a rather handsome salary. I also have two eyes and a very good informant in Uglow. He says he found you asleep at your desk three nights last week.”

  Moray slouched into his chair, elbows braced on the arms and fingers steepled in front of him.

  “It’s Ross and the Record. He’s gaining on us. He got those details from the physician who examined the body in the Shipley murder before us.”

  “We’ve talked about this. The Record has a good staff. Sometimes they’re going to beat us,” she said.

  “But they shouldn’t. We’ve been around for longer. We’re better.” If he lost his drive to be faster, better, and more detailed than the other papers in town, he might as well pack up and leave the business. That was why he had pushed Caroline again that evening.

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” said Eva.

  “I need your help with a wee bit of research,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.

  Not only was Eva a fast, ruthless editor, she also knew more about the Byzantine record keeping of Edinburgh’s various government offices than anyone else at the Lothian—or possibly in the city.

  “Flattering me and then asking me for a favor?” she asked with a laugh.

  “What can I say? I’m a smart man. I need you to look into Robert Trevlan.”

  She pulled a scrap of paper to her and jotted down the name. “He’s Neil Trevlan’s son, isn’t he? Stands to inherit his father’s bank.”

  “That’s the one. I need a full background on him. Put one of the reporters on it if you need to,” he said, knowing she’d never turn down a challenge like this.

  “Tell me why you want to look at Trevlan and I’ll do it myself.”

  He grinned. “He’s been sniffing around Caroline Burkett.”

  “This woman again.” She sighed. “She’s already said no to a story.”

  And she’d said no again that evening, but he wasn’t about to bring that up.

  “Trevlan’s interested in her. I want to know exactly the sort of man he is. It could be good for the Tattler in the weeks to come.”

  “Are you sure you want to know just because of the Tattler?” she asked.

  “What other reason would I have?” he asked, his tone clipped and defensive.

  “It’s not because Miss Burkett is by all accounts beautiful?”

  “She is, but what of it? You’re a beautiful woman.”

  She shot him a look. “The most anyone could ever say of me is that I’m handsome.”

  “Catriona might disagree.”

  Eva softened. “Catriona hasn’t been able to assess my appearance objectively since the day we met. You’re certain you don’t have ulterior motives?”

  “Just let me know what you find out about Trevlan.” He held out a hand for the mock-up that lay at her elbow. “Now let’s make sure the front page is proofed or we won’t have a paper tomorrow.”

  And when it was all done, he was going to hunt through the stack of newspapers on his desk once again, because there was another article Caroline Burkett should read.

  Chapter Eight

  Scottish ladies in search of a husband should be wary of a new rival. The indefat
igable Miss B— appears to have captured the hearts of this city’s unmarried gentlemen. We’re given to understand that her dance card was in such frequent use at a dinner and dance given by Mrs. S— that the lady could hardly pause to check to see who her next partner was to be.

  One unfeeling family made it known that they would not be associated with a woman with a past—discerning readers will recall that the incomparable Miss B—was at the center of a lawsuit of the most notorious nature. However, their disapproval was soon overshadowed by the sheer popularity of Miss B— as she was introduced around by her hostess. It is possible that Miss B— might become quite the fashion and a touch of scandal may become the extra je ne sais quoi that a lady needs to stand out from this season’s rather dreary crowd of debs.

  —THISTLE & TITTLE

  Would you believe it, Mamma, that none other than Caroline Burkett is in town? I was as shocked as I’m sure you are to realize that she had come up from London. But that isn’t even the most extraordinary thing. She dined at Mrs. Sullivan’s table. I heard it in a note from Mrs. Emerson, who was ever so eager to share this little bit of knowledge with me to show that she’d been invited, but really she was only there for the dancing afterward, so it hardly counts.

  And you’ll never believe, Mrs. Emerson’s missive said that Miss Burkett danced all night long. She hardly had a moment’s rest, for the gentlemen kept whirling her off for a reel or a waltz or a polka. It really is shameful what a spectacle some women make of themselves accepting every offer of a dance. As you know, I was far more discerning before marrying dear Gerald and hardly danced at all.

  I can’t think what Mrs. Sullivan was thinking when she invited Miss Burkett, except that perhaps she’s unaware of the lady’s absolute unsuitability. It seems unfathomable that a woman such as Miss Burkett would make herself notorious and then be rewarded for it! To think there are good, upstanding women like myself who would no doubt appreciate an invitation to Mrs. Sullivan’s table. I myself have never dined there, although I’m certain an invitation is forthcoming.

  —A letter from Mrs. Matilda Rowe, notorious gossip, busybody, rarely asked to dance, perpetually left off Mrs. Sullivan’s invitation list

  “I’d say that yesterday evening was quite a success,” said Elsie from across the drawing room.

  The ladies of the household had attended church dutifully—if not a little sleepily—and, upon returning home, retreated with instructions to have tea sent to ward off their fatigue. With Michael ensconced in his study, they could speak freely, picking over the details of Mrs. Sullivan’s party.

  “It certainly was instructive,” said Caroline, but her mind, as it had been the entire night since they’d returned home, was fixed on the one man she didn’t want to think about.

  Moray.

  The man was proving to be a pest, a thorn in her side that she couldn’t rid herself of, and he was beginning to drive her to distraction.

  Their conversation over dinner could have left him in no doubt that she had no interest in speaking to him. And yet he’d persisted in talking to her, in drawing out the worst in her. She’d been alternately cold and rude, pushing the boundaries of what a lady might say to a gentleman. Not that he’d been entirely chivalrous himself. He’d teased her about her conversation with Trevlan, a perfectly acceptable—if boring—man. But boring was to her benefit. Boring didn’t go casting women off. Boring was steady.

  Moray had annoyed her so much, she’d snapped and in turn insulted him. Only she wasn’t entirely sure how. All she knew was that when she’d suggested that he was the sort of gentleman who rode and shot and went on weeks-long parties to country manors, she’d been soundly rebuked.

  It was a stark contrast to earlier in the evening when she’d told him about her experiences with the London press. She’d half expected him to laugh and tell her that was simply the cost of being a public figure. Yet he hadn’t laughed. Instead he’d sat there and listened to her speak, his eyes lit with something she could almost believe was sympathy. His attention had been seductive in a way, leaving her feeling as though she was the only one in the world who mattered. That her story was the only one he wanted to hear. But it struck her now that perhaps that was what made him so good at what he did. The intensity of his attention could tempt anyone to tell him their story, unadulterated and raw. He was, after all, still a member of the press. The enemy. To let him draw back the curtain even a little bit would be dangerous.

  “You weren’t hard-pressed to find partners,” said Elsie, drawing Caroline’s attention back to the other men at the party. The men who wanted to talk to her. The ones who weren’t brutes wielding their power like a bludgeon, ruining people’s lives with ink and paper.

  “Thanks to the clever engineering of Mrs. Sullivan. She certainly wastes no time in her matchmaking efforts.”

  “And what did you think of the gentlemen she presented you?”

  Caroline lifted a shoulder. “Most seemed perfectly respectable and utterly marriageable.”

  “But did you like any of them?” asked Elsie.

  Caroline fiddled with the handle of her teacup. “The better question is whether any of them seem keen. I’d like to be married by the autumn, so ‘like’ hardly enters into the conversation.”

  Oh, she would certainly welcome a husband who was kind and for whom she had some affection, but she hardly counted that as the most important thing. What she really needed was the security of a household of her own and the protection that marriage would offer her. It would be her chance to shed her scandal-tinged life as Miss Burkett and start again as Mrs. . . . who?

  “You don’t have to be married by then on our account,” said Elsie, her expression a little pained. “I hope you know you’re welcome to stay with Michael and me as long as you need.”

  Caroline was tempted to snatch up that offer and hold it close to her heart, but she’d seen how the charity of relatives could sour. That was what had happened with her aunt and uncle in London. Her scandal had become their burden, and had remained so even after the trial.

  It would be easier if she didn’t like Elsie quite so much. Caroline hadn’t been in Edinburgh two weeks, but already she felt closer to her sister-in-law than to anyone else. She was so starved for friendship after her ordeal in London that she might’ve prolonged her stay just to enjoy Elsie’s companionship if it hadn’t been for the papers. The articles had been innocent enough so far, but she didn’t trust Moray or any of his counterparts not to report scandal where there was none. She needed to be married and out of Elsie and Michael’s house before any nastiness emerged. Before any of it could stick to them.

  There’s always the spinster cottage. But she shook her head. A life with Henrietta in Yorkshire would be a life of isolation. A small life. Not at all what she wanted for herself.

  “Now that I’m out in the world, we shall see what will become of Mrs. Sullivan’s band of merry bachelors. Perhaps she’ll have more detail when we go to meet her dressmaker tomorrow,” she said.

  “And by then we’ll know whether any of the Monday scandal sheets wrote about the party.” When Elsie looked up she must’ve caught her grimace for she asked, “What is the matter?”

  “There was an unfortunate incident with a Mr. Carlson,” Caroline said before relaying the entire story, including the shame she’d felt the moment he realized she was the woman from the papers. The disgust that had hardened his eyes still stung.

  “It felt like London all over again,” she said.

  Elsie pressed a gentle hand to her forearm. “I’m sorry we weren’t in London to support you. I didn’t understand the scope of everything until the lawsuit was well under way, and neither did I understand how ill your mother was, but neither of those is sufficient reason for not coming.”

  “I managed,” Caroline said with a soft smile.

  “But you shouldn’t have had to. I don’t even know much about the circumstances of your engagement.”

  Caroline opened her mouth,
yearning to tell her sister-in-law everything. It would be a relief to unburden herself, not of the details of her engagement to Julian—those had been made public in court—but about the way she felt about it all. That was what she’d never told anyone. That was the secret she still kept locked away.

  Mrs. James bustled into the room bearing a bouquet of roses and an armful of tulips, breaking the mood.

  “These were just delivered for Miss Burkett,” said the housekeeper.

  “Oh, Caroline, look,” said Elsie, reaching out to stroke one of the pink rose petals as Mrs. James handed the flowers to Caroline.

  “Here are the cards,” said Mrs. James, depositing the papers next to them.

  A flutter of excitement flitted through Caroline’s chest as she picked up the first one.

  Dear Miss Burkett,

  It would give me great pleasure to be allowed the privilege of a drive with you in Holyrood Park this Tuesday.

  Yours faithfully,

  Robert Trevlan

  “The roses are from Mr. Trevlan. He’s asked me for an outing,” she said, handing the card to Elsie.

  “Of course, you must go. If nothing else, Mr. Trevlan is an excellent driver,” her sister-in-law said. “Who sent the tulips?”

  Caroline peered down at the second card. “Mr. Stephenson. We spoke for a spell before the dancing began in earnest.”

  “What does he say?” asked Elsie.

  “He’d like permission to call this week.”

  “You can tell him we’ll be at home to receive him Wednesday. That should give you time with Mr. Trevlan as well,” said Elsie. “This is a good start.”

  “It is.”

  “Oh, I nearly forgot,” said Elsie, flipping through the morning’s post that sat in front of her. “This came for you.”

  When her sister-in-law held out the letter, Caroline knew the instant she saw the bold handwriting on the envelope who it was from. That didn’t stop the little shock that seemed to jolt through her arm when she gingerly took the letter. Moray had written to her again.