Scandalously Yours

by Cara Elliott

  Without the fire of ideas, life would seem awfully cold.

  After stirring the coals in the hearth to a cheery blaze, she sat down at her desk and opened her portfolio of papers. Neatly folded atop her notes was the latest edition of the Morning Gazette.

  “Hell’s bells,” she muttered, after finishing the column that Anna had carefully circled in red.

  A lady is expected to have more sense than to pen a parody and leave it lying around where her sister might find the dratted thing.

  No matter that it was her sister who ought to have a peal rung over her head, Olivia could not help feeling a twinge of guilt at the part she had played in fanning the flames of the farce.

  Apparently now, with this new twist, it was hot enough to make the front page news.

  The formal retraction, had it appeared on its own, would have put an end to the nonsense once and for all. But Mr. Hurley, who possessed the nose of a bloodhound when it came to scenting a good story, had seen fit to publish an addendum.

  “Hell,” she echoed, on reading over the fine print. “And damnation.” Perhaps it was merely a clever joke, penned by a skilled writer. She, of all people, should know how language could be manipulated to create an infinite range of emotion.

  And yet, there was something so poignantly raw and real about the short paragraph that Olivia didn’t doubt it was written from the heart. She might be an aging bluestocking now, but she still recalled with painful clarity what it was like as a child to feel alone and vulnerable.

  As for the prospect of a cold, unfeeling mother, a “Steel Corset” who held rules and regulations in such high regard…

  She expelled a sigh, thinking of her late father, and how wonderfully free of constraint he had been in encouraging his daughters to explore the world.

  Oh yes, I know what it is like to lose a beloved parent.

  Uncapping her ink well, Olivia set to composing a second response to the unknown young gentleman.

  “Stop fussing! You are the one who told me to show some bottom,” pointed out Prescott.

  “Yes—but I didn’t mean for you to risk having it paddled from here to Hades.” Lucy grimaced. “This isn’t a good idea, Scottie.”

  “Neither is having the Steel Corset for a mother,” he retorted.

  Unable to think of a reply, she looked away and began to twist at the end of her braids.

  “I need to go to London.” Prescott waved the letter under her nose. “Look, she’s given me a time and a place to meet if I am in Town. And she says if I ever need advice I may always feel free to contact her by sending a note to this address.”

  His friend took a moment to read it. “So you mean to show up for this meeting?”

  He nodded.

  “Then what?”

  “Well…” He folded the slip of paper and tucked it back in his pocket. “I thought I would invite her to visit Wrexham Manor. I am sure if Father meets her, he will like her very much.”

  “That’s your plan?” The waggle of her brows mimicked the note of skepticism.

  It was Prescott’s turn to remain silent.

  “Ha! It has more holes than a sieve.” Sliding down from the bale of hay, Lucy started to pace in circles. “You’ll be sunk before you even get out of the stableyard.”

  “Not if you’ll help.” His lip quivered ever so slightly. “There may be a few leaks, but it’s not as if I have to make it to Cathay…just the Painted Pony in St. Albans Street.”

  “Stowing away on the mail coach isn’t the problem. In the boot, there is a small space where they keep extra spokes. If we work quickly while they are changing the team, and I retie the canvas…”

  “You are a real brick, Lucy.”

  “Hold your horses. I haven’t said yes yet.” She fixed him with a searching look. “What if she is not at home, or you lose your way, or something else goes wrong? It’s one thing to sneak into Squire Dimworthy’s apple orchard, but quite another to venture into London all by yourself.”

  She blew out her cheeks. “You may be a real goose at times, but…but I should never forgive myself if you ended up roasted.”

  “It’s not so very dangerous.” Prescott moved quickly to counter her concerns. “You see, I won’t be on my own. My Aunt Cecilia lives in Mayfair, and she is always inviting me to visit her. The point is, I have to move fast. I heard Father telling Withers that he is changing his plans and returning to London several days early. Once he leaves, it will be too late. I’ll be doomed.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “You are right. Maybe it is better if you don’t get involved. I’ll find another way. I’ll go—”

  “You’ll go to the Devil,” she muttered. “The only way you have a prayer of this working is if I lend a hand.” She cracked her knuckles. “Have you any money for emergencies?”

  Prescott checked his pockets. “Two shillings, tuppence.”

  A low snort expressed her opinion of the piddling amount. “Take this.” She slapped a guinea into his palm. “And you’ll need a packet of food for the journey. Maybe a blanket as well.”

  “Lucy, you are a—”

  “I am an idiot.” She grinned. “But I am also your friend. Come on, we haven’t much time.”

  The galloping thud of the hooves matched the pounding of John’s own racing heart.

  Dear God, if anything were to happen to Scottie…

  It was only by an act of providence that Withers had stopped by the inn for a pint of ale. When he had casually asked about Prescott’s whereabouts Lucy had looked a little guilty. Further questioning had elicited the truth, and his former batman had come pelting back to the manor with the news.

  Hurry, hurry. Horrible things could happen to a lone child in London. There were dastards who hung around the coaching inns, snatching young girls and boys for thieving rings and brothels…

  Wrenching back on the reins, John slowed his speeding curricle as it swung into the turn, managing by a hair’s breadth to keep the wheels from skidding out of control. The near miss forced his attention back to the road. He had been enough of a ham-fisted clutch of late, without compounding his clumsiness by driving into a ditch.

  Regaining his grip on his careening emotions, John steadied the horses to a more measured pace.

  If only his luck would hold. He had made excellent time, despite the darkness and intermittent drizzle. At his last stop, the ostler had said the mail coach was no more than a half hour ahead. Given the weather and his much lighter vehicle, he ought to catch up by the next scheduled stop in Westerly.

  An hour, he estimated. Maybe an hour and a half.

  But it seemed like an eternity before a glimmer of light up ahead pierced through the fog. With a last, desperate flick of the whip, John urged one more burst of speed from his tired team and turned into the muddy stableyard. Before the wheels had stopped rolling, he was off his perch and sprinting past the startled post boys.

  “Scottie!” His fingers, stiff with cold and fear, fumbled with the knots of the canvas covering the boot of the mail coach.

  “F-father!”

  Near dizzy with relief, John yanked the cording free and pulled his shivering son into his arms.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” gulped Prescott, his voice sounding very small within the folds of the earl’s greatcoat.

  “It’s alright, it’s alright.” Hugging the boy tighter to his chest, he tried to stop his hands from shaking.

  “Y-you can birch me until my bum is black and blue, but please don’t take me back to the Manor, Father,” begged Prescott. “I must go to London. I have a very important m-meeting with Lady Loose Screw, and a gentleman m-must always keep his appointments, isn’t that so?”

  John felt a lump form in his throat. Until now, he hadn’t truly fathomed the depths of his son’s despair. No doubt, Lady Serena would counsel a firm hand and a firm rod, but at the sound of snuffling against the wet wool he couldn’t harden his heart to the appeal.

  A seasoned soldier knew that sometim
es it was necessary to make a strategic retreat before regrouping for the final victory charge.

  “What say you to this, Scottie? We’ll both continue on to London tonight. I was planning to return this week in any case, and now, with you with me, we’ll have a chance to spend some time together, visiting the sights, seeing the acrobats at Astley’s—”

  “And keeping my meeting for tomorrow in the gardens of Portman Square?”

  John drew in a long breath. “I shall make a bargain with you, Scottie. I shall agree to meet your Lady Loose Screw if you will agree to give Lady Serena a fresh start to win your regard. For whatever reason, I fear you have taken an unreasonable dislike to her. Give her a fair chance.”

  Prescott raised a tear-stained face. “Will you give Lady Loose Screw a fair chance as well?”

  He relaxed. It was an easy enough promise to make. That Scottie’s anonymous letter writer could hold a candle to the poised and polished Lady Serena was absurd. “Yes, you have my word that I shall meet her with an open mind.” He smoothed his hand over Scottie’s damp curls. “So, do we have a bargain?”

  His son nodded solemnly. “Yes, we have a bargain.”

  Chapter Nine

  Unlatching the side gate, Olivia slipped inside the high-fenced gardens. Thick twines of ivy hung heavy on the wrought iron, obscuring the winding paths and leafy shrubbery from the street. The square was quiet at this time of day, and aside from a harried maid walking a pair of lively pugs, the graveled walkways were deserted.

  A fool’s errand, she chided herself. She must have bats in her belfry to continue this odd correspondence with a child. Her other writing was far more important.

  The letter crackled her hand. Or was it? She knew all too well what it felt like to be subject to a cold, uncaring parent. If she could offer a few words of counsel, well, perhaps she could help ease his pain.

  Hell, the boy’s father must be an uncaring wretch, to have so little concern for his son.

  Rounding a bend, she saw that she was not the only resident of Mayfair, aside from the servants and dogs, out for a morning stroll. Up ahead, two figures, one tall, one short, were coming from the east entrance and their path were about to cross with hers.

  Bloody hell. Olivia hastily tucked the letter into her glove as she recognized Lord Wrexham.

  The earl stopped in his tracks, a look of surprise—or was it annoyance—flitting across his face. “Miss Sloane,” he said stiffly, touching a hand to the brim of his high crown beaver hat.

  “Milord,” she replied. His position prevented her from moving on.

  “You are, er, out awfully early.”

  “Yes, I am an early riser and like to begin the day with a brisk walk,” she replied. “And you, sir?”

  He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “My son and I arrived in Town late last night, and he was anxious to, er, get out and see the sights.”

  “Yes, well, I can hardly blame him. London certainly has a great many things to attract a young man’s interest.”

  Though the earl looked reluctant, good manners dictated that he go through the ritual of introductions before moving on. “Miss Sloane, allow me to present my son, Prescott, Viscount Linsley.” The boy, she noted, appeared far more interested in surveying the surrounding shrubbery than in meeting an adult. It took a discreet nudge from his father to get his attention.

  “Scottie,” murmured John, “make your bow to Miss Sloane.”

  “How nice to meet you, Lord Linsley,” murmured Olivia in reply. Anxious to cut the meeting short, she was about to excuse herself when the boy looked up, revealing a large purpling bruise around his left eye. “My, that is quite a gruesome shiner you have,” she said admiringly. “I imagine there’s a corking good story to it.”

  Prescott flashed a shy grin. “I hit my head on a bundle of wheel spokes when the Tunbridge Wells mail coach ran over a very large rut in the road. I was in the boot, you see, and it was pitch dark, on account of it being close to midnight—”

  “Scottie,” warned the earl, in a tightly coiled voice. To her, he added, “Forgive us, Miss Sloane. I am sure you are not interested in my son’s misadventures.”

  Actually she was. That the Perfect Hero had a boy prone to mischief was intriguing. However the look of solemn reserve on his face made clear he did not wish his son to talk about it. “I am sure there is a very exciting story to why you were in the boot of the mail coach,” she murmured. “And while I would no doubt enjoy hearing it—”

  “I stowed away,” blurted out Prescott.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Olivia saw John’s mouth thin to a grim line as his son hurried on with his explanation.

  “My best friend Lucy helped me. Her father owns the inn in our village.”

  “How very intrepid of you. I imagine you wanted a grand adventure.” Olivia smiled, recalling one of her own youthful escapades. “I once snuck into our neighbor’s farm cart on market day, thinking it would be quite an exciting lark to journey to Dover.” She chuckled at the memory. “But it wasn’t at all what I expected. The truth is, it was horrible! I ended up cold, starving, and smelling like turnips for the next week.”

  “I didn’t like it very much, either,” admitted Prescott. “It was wet as a witch’s tit—”

  “SCOTTIE!” exclaimed John.

  Olivia had to bite her lip to hold back a peal of laughter.

  The boy scrunched his face in confusion. “What? Wilkins says that all the time and you never bellow at him.”

  “It is not a word that ought ever be said in front of a lady,” explained John tightly.

  “Sorry,” said Prescott in a small voice.

  Olivia dismissed it with an airy wave. “Oh, pffft. I’ve heard a good many worse sayings than that,” she confided.

  Prescott responded with a grateful smile. “Lucy knows a lot of colorful words, too. She’s eleven, so she has more experience in life than I do.”

  Leaning down, Olivia gave a conspiratorial wink. “Yes, well, we older women are wise in the ways of the world.”

  The boy giggled.

  As for John, he was watching her with a hooded gaze that was far less revealing of his feelings. Disapproving? It was hard to tell. His dark, thick-fringed lashes formed an impenetrable curtain over his dark eyes.

  Olivia pulled herself back from pondering what emotions the earl might be hiding. At the moment, it was quite obvious from his fidgeting that his primary wish was to be rid of her company.

  After her “dancing-naked-in-the-ballroom” comment and strange ritual of stroking wood and stone chess pieces, he must think her the Hellion from Hades.

  “Well, do enjoy your stay in London, Lord Linsley,” she said, becoming a bit edgy herself. She didn’t relish having to explain the real reason for own her presence in the gardens. “I am sure you will find Town more interesting than…wherever it was you were going on your Adventure.”

  “Actually I was on my way here to Town,” replied the boy, darting a defiant look at the earl. “On account of having a very important meeting arranged.”

  Olivia felt her skin begin to prickle. Oh, no. No.

  Impossible.

  “Father did not approve,” he went on. “But an honorable gentleman does not back out of his commitments, so I was forced to—”

  “As I said before,” interrupted the earl. “Miss Sloane is not interested in hearing any more childish tales of woe.”

  “I’m sure your father has only your best interest at heart.” Impossible, she repeated to herself. Trying to shake off her sneaking suspicions, she essayed a joke. “I do hope you weren’t dashing off to Gretna Green to be married over the anvil.”

  “It’s not me who is thinking of getting married,” blurted out Prescott. “It is Father.”

  “Scottie.”

  Ignoring the ominous rumble emanating from his father, the boy added, “To the Steel Corset.”

  Oh, merde, thought Olivia, recognizing the unflattering epithet at once. Seeing as
it appeared several times in the letter she had hidden away in her glove—underscored with bold black lines—she could no longer deny the terrible truth.

  Swallowing a far more colorful curse, Olivia gave a cluck of commiseration. “Oh, dear, that sounds rather…unyielding.”

  John looked distinctly uncomfortable. “There is no formal agreement between us,” he growled to Scottie.

  “Yet,” intoned the boy.

  Olivia didn’t need to hear any more. Deciding her only option was to beat a hasty retreat, she shifted her reticule, hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Well, much as I am enjoying our tête-à-tête, I really must be going, Lord Wrexham.”

  To his son she added, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Linsley. I hope that your visit to London meets all your expectations.”

  The boy had stepped away from John and was turning in a slow circle. “Are you sure this is the right place, Father? I—I don’t see her.”

  “Mayhap she has more sense that I gave her credit for,” replied the earl with a harried sigh.

  “Or mayhap she has a very good reason for missing the appointment.” As Olivia started to walk away, she caught Prescott’s eye and softly added, “Ladies, too, have a sense of honor. They do not leave someone in the lurch except under extreme duress.”

  John let out his breath as Olivia walked away, thanking the heavens that Prescott’s Lady Loose Screw had not yet made her appearance. Eris, the Greek goddess of Chaos, had wrought enough mischief in his life as it was.

  Why, he thought to himself, it is no surprise that the ancient Greeks chose a woman to embody Strife and Mayhem.

  “I don’t see her,” repeated Prescott, returning from a hurried check of the surrounding shrubbery.

  Seeing his son’s crestfallen face, the earl refrained from caustic comment. “As Miss Sloane pointed out,” he said gently, “a last-minute emergency must have occurred to prevent her coming.”

  Prescott nodded, manfully blinking back tears. “Miss Sloane is awfully nice,” he declared after a moment. “I wager you that she doesn’t wear an steel corset.”