Scandalously Yours

by Cara Elliott

  “‘Corset’ is another word that a gentlemen never, ever mentions in the presence of a lady,” said John through gritted teeth. Especially as mention of the word stirred an unwilling mental picture of sylph-like Miss Sloane wearing nothing at all.

  A naked Nereid, dancing across a moon-dappled meadow.

  Bloody hell, the mad dash through the rain and fog must have brought on a brain fever. How else to explain the strange shivers of heat pulsing through his body.

  Keeping his eyes averted from the provocative sway of Olivia’s fast-retreating hips, the earl pursed his lips. “It seems I’ve been sadly neglecting your lessons on proper manners, Scottie. Lady Serena was right to point out my shortcoming.”

  “To the Devil with manners,” mumbled his son. “And to the Devil with the Steel Corset.”

  John pretended not to hear the last few words. He couldn’t blame his son for thinking Miss Sloane was nice. In fact, she had been more than nice. She had been kind and funny. And not at all condescending. Unlike some, she seemed to know intuitively just the right thing to say to a ten-year-old boy.

  Ashamed of himself, he quickly quelled such disloyal thoughts,

  “Come, we have just enough time to stop at Gunter’s Tea Shop for strawberry ices before I leave you with Aunt Cecilia for an afternoon of sightseeing.”

  “I swear, this is becoming more absurd than a Minerva Press novel,” exclaimed Anna, as soon as Olivia finished giving her sisters a detailed account of the morning encounter.

  “I know, I know,” she said glumly. “But honestly, it’s half your fault. If you hadn’t shown me that newspaper clipping, if you hadn’t mailed that dratted letter—”

  “There’s no point in moaning over spilled milk,” pointed out Caro. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing, I hope,” interjected Anna. “You’ve done enough already to make the poor boy think that this marriage can be avoided. I’m not sure it’s right to encourage false hopes. It might just be better for him to accept his father’s decision, and learn to live with his new stepmother.”

  Caro made a face. “That’s not very romantic.”

  “Neither is the earl,” quipped Olivia. And yet, she wasn’t so sure that was true. Seen in a certain angle of light, his eyes had an impish spark that was intriguingly at odds with his oh-so-solemn expression.

  “There, you see? That’s what I mean.” Anna took a moment to sharpen one of her quills. “Er, by the by, do you mind if I use this little incident as part of the plot for my next chapter?”

  “Oh, I am so glad that my travails can serve as inspiration for Emmalina and her amours.” Olivia sank into one of the armchairs by the hearth and took her head in her hands. “Drat. I should be smart enough to come up with a clever solution. I can’t very well arrange another face-to-face meeting between Lady Loose Screw and Lord Wrexham’s son, now that he knows my real identity. But there has to be another alternative. Despite what you say, Anna, I feel like a wretch leaving the boy in the lurch.”

  A thoughtful silence came over the study, punctuated only by the crackling coals and the scratch of Anna’s pen.

  “I have it!” Caro suddenly snapped her fingers. “We can kidnap the Steel Corset and sell her to a ring of white slavers.” She chortled. “Just like in Lord Byron’s poem, The Corsair.”

  “I’m not sure we’ll find any pirates cruising along Piccadilly Street,” said Olivia dryly.

  “Thank God,” murmured Anna. “My book earnings would not be near enough to bail both of you out of Old Bailey.”

  Undeterred by her sister’s sarcasm, Caro began pacing the length of the bowfront window, her face scrunched in thought.

  Olivia sighed and picked up the newly purchased book of Hingham’s essays.

  “I have it!” Caro suddenly stopped in her tracks. “You can’t meet the boy, but I can! Seeing as I’m not allowed to attend any balls or parties yet, none of the ton is familiar with my face. Even if Lord Wrexham happened to spot me, he wouldn’t have a clue as to who I am.”

  Olivia reminded herself that the road to Hell was paved with good intentions. And yet, knowing how much Caro was yearning for an Adventure in London, she couldn’t bring herself to dismiss it out of hand.

  “Hmmm,” she murmured. “And just how would we arrange this meeting without his father knowing of it? I doubt we could simply send a letter to the earl’s townhouse with provoking suspicion.”

  Caro thought for a few moments. “Easy. You send a nice picture book to the boy, with a note attached to the cover saying that you hope his eye has healed. Lord Wrexham will of course read it, but there’s nothing to stir his suspicions, right?” She paused. “But inside the book, where the earl won’t see it, you put another note, saying that Lady Loose Screw had observed this morning’s meeting and was afraid to show herself and reveal her true identity with you there. However, because she didn’t want Prescott to feel she had abandoned him, she had this book secretly delivered to your house, along with a note to you explaining the circumstances.”

  “Caro—” began Olivia. But her youngest sister quickly waved her to silence.

  “No, let me finish! You see, she, um, knows you from one of your political societies, and so feels she can trust you to pass it on to Prescott discreetly. I will write a second note to put inside the book, this one from Lady Loose Screw, setting a rendezvous with the boy in the gardens of Grosvenor Square. I’m sure he is clever enough to think of an excuse to walk there. After all, it’s right outside his father’s door.”

  “Lud, you have a Machiavellian mind,” murmured Anna. “You’ve even thought of the little details, like making sure the handwriting on the two notes is not the same.”

  “It must come from reading your novels,” said her youngest sister, with an evil grin.

  “Ha! No wonder we novelists are blamed for corrupting the young and the innocent.” Anna rolled her eyes, and then looked at Olivia. “That said, Caro is showing a budding talent for plotting. Her plan just might work.”

  Caro dropped an exaggerated curtsy.

  “Which begs the next question,” drawled Anna. “What in the name of Hades do you intend to have Caro tell the boy?”

  “Short of suggesting that he sell the odious ‘Steel Corset’ into a pasha’s harem,” added Caro.

  “I’m not exactly sure yet,” answered Olivia. “But I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

  Quickening his steps, John turned the corner and crossed the street. A bell tinkled as he entered the door to the shop, setting off a flurry of whispers among the ink-stained clerks.

  One of them rose from his stool and ushered the earl into a private office. “I’ll tell the guv that you are here again, milord.”

  John removed his hat and began to peruse a series of colorful broadsides hung on the far wall.

  “So sorry, milord!”

  The earl turned at the sound of the booming voice.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting,” went on Josiah Hurley as he paused in the open doorway and straightened his rumpled waistcoat. “Do have a seat, sir. How may I help you today?”

  Distracted for a moment by the fleeting glimpse of a cloaked figure exiting the shop, Wrexham didn’t answer for an instant. Taking the proferred chair, he furrowed his brow. “Why, that was Miss Olivia Sloane who just left here, was it not?”

  “Was it?” Hurley rubbed at his jaw, leaving a smudge of linseed oil. “To tell the truth, I didn’t ask the lady her name.”

  How very odd, mused the earl. Young ladies did not usually go out of their way to visit a printing shop.

  “What did she want?” he asked after a moment’s hesitation.

  Hurley shrugged. “You would have to ask my assistant, sir. She may have come to fetch a missing newspaper for her family. Ladies sometimes do that when the daily delivery goes astray.”

  “Ah.” Reminding himself that he was here on more important business than Miss Sloane’s peregrinations, John leaned forward
and placed a hand on the newspaperman’s desk. “Any word yet? Have you been able to arrange a meeting with your columnist? I am most anxious to have a talk with him at his earliest convenience.”

  “Er, well, as to that sir.” Hurley shifted in his seat. “I’m afraid I’ve disappointing news. As I warned you, ‘The Beacon’ is a very private person and turned me down flat.”

  “Perhaps if you give me the fellow’s name and address name, I could appeal to him directly.”

  Hurley shook his head. “Oh, er, the gentleman doesn’t reside here in London.”

  “Then where?” pressed the earl.

  “Forgive me, milord, but ‘The Beacon’ is a recluse. I’ve sworn to keep the name and address a secret.”

  “Damn,” muttered John. “It’s imperative that I contact him. A very important debate is coming up in Parliament, and I wish to ask his advice on the issues.” To punctuate the sense of urgency, he began to drum his fingers on the desktop.

  The newspaperman remained unmoved. “I wish I could help you, milord. But a promise is a promise.”

  John opened his mouth to argue, but Hurley quickly quashed any possible protest.

  “As a gentleman, you surely understand.”

  “Well, may I leave a note, then?”

  After a hitch of hesitation, Hurley agreed. “Aye, I suppose that would be fine.”

  “And you’ll see to it that it gets to delivered to ‘The Beacon’ without fail?” demanded John.

  Signing a cross over his heart, Hurley gave a solemn nod. “You have my word on it, milord.”

  Rising, the earl took a muttered leave of the newspaperman and returned to the street. It was a less than satisfactory arrangement, however he had no choice but to accept it.

  For now.

  However, he hadn’t won a chestful of medals in the Peninsular campaign by sitting on his bum. If he didn’t hear anything soon, he would have to switch tactics and take the offensive.

  In war, as in chess, there were a number of different strategies for achieving victory.

  The Beacon was proving adept at making elusive moves. But the battle—or was it a game?—was just beginning.

  Chapter Ten

  Thank you, Miss Anna.” As the music ended, Lord Davies brought his twirl to a graceful stop in front of Olivia and smiled. “Your sister is a splendid dancer, Miss Sloane. She moves like…”

  “Spun sugar?” suggested Olivia, eyeing Anna’s white silk gown with a glint of amusement.

  Their mother had insisted on adding a confection of tiny pink taffeta roses along the scooped neckline, nearly ruining the elegant simplicity of the design. But with naught but the simple strand of pearls at her neck, and a sprig of snowy Baby’s Breath twined in her honey-gold hair, Anna was still a vision of ethereal, elfin beauty.

  “Lud, you make me sound like a sweet nothing,” replied her sister with a mock grimace. “I hope I have more substance than that.”

  Davies looked a trifle uncertain of how to respond. “Be assured, Miss Anna, you are…”

  “Absolutely delicious?” suggested a half-mocking voice from behind Olivia’s back.

  She turned to see a gentleman step out from the shadows. His long, dark hair was carelessly combed, and he wore his tailored evening clothes with a nonchalance that bordered on insolence.

  “Ah, Lord Davenport,” murmured Olivia. “What a surprise to see you here tonight.” The marquess was reputed to be a ruthless rake and rarely made an appearance in the ballrooms of Mayfair. His favored haunts were said to be in the more dangerous, disreputable parts of Town, where the drinking was deep, the gambling was outrageous, and the women were unfettered by the rules of Polite Society.

  His mouth curled up at the corners. “Oh, on occasion, I can behave in a civilized manner.”

  “Yes, but one wouldn’t expect that an occasion like this would bring out your better nature,” she replied.

  He laughed. “It hasn’t. I’m only here because I’m looking for a rich heiress.”

  Olivia bit back a smile. Despite his awful reputation, she rather liked The Devil Davenport and the way he flaunted his utter disregard for what people thought of him. “Alas, sir, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong corner of the room.”

  Davies frowned a warning at the marquess and hastily changed the subject. “Have you two ladies read the latest novel from Sir Sharpe Quill? My sisters say it’s highly diverting.”

  Olivia slanted a sidelong glance at Anna, who didn’t turn a hair.

  “Though I suppose you are both far too sensible to read such silly scribbling,” added Davies with a smile.

  “On the contrary,” replied Olivia. “I enjoyed it.”

  “As did I,” said Davenport.

  “Seeing as my sisters were making such a fuss about the book, I felt compelled to read it as well,” explained Davies. “I confess, it was amusing. But absurd.”

  “Of course it’s absurd,” drawled Davenport. “That’s the point. But unlike most of the other books of its type, it’s clever and very well written.” He turned to Anna. “And you, Miss Anna, have you read it?”

  “Yes,” she said rather curtly.

  Davenport raised an inquiring brow. “And?”

  “I see things that could be improved.”

  The marquess flicked a wrinkle from his sleeve. “Such as?”

  Before Anna could answer, Lady Trumbull appeared, and began clucking in agitated alarm, like a mother hen herding her chicks away from the jaws of a stalking fox. “Come girls, I must speak to you for a moment.” Glowering at Davenport, she added, “In private, if you please.”

  Inclining a sardonic bow, the marquess sauntered away.

  Catching Lord Davies’s eye, she quickly softened her scowl. “You, sir, are of course most welcome to return and escort Anna in to supper. I shan’t be long with her.”

  “My pleasure, madam,” replied Davies, discreetly backing away in the crowd.

  “Pray, do not encourage such a scoundrel as Lord Davenport, Olivia,” scolded her mother. “Do you wish to scare off all the eligible suitors for your sister’s hand?”

  “It wasn’t Olivia’s fault that the man joined our group,” said Anna. “The Devil dances to his own tune.”

  “Hmmph!” Lady Trumbull swatted one her turban’s drooping feathers away from her face. “Don’t contradict me, my dear. It’s not ladylike. And don’t speak to that rogue again.”

  “Yes, Mama,” replied Anna sweetly.

  Mollified, their mother returned to the group of basilisk-eyed chaperones sitting near the refreshment table.

  “Perhaps we should have mentioned that last time you came to a ball, you danced with the Earl of Wrexham,” mused Anna as she watched the bobbing ostrich plumes slowly recede from view. “That would have spiked her guns, so to speak.”

  “As you well know, Mama needs no real reason to fire away at me,” muttered Olivia.

  “That’s because you make yourself an easy target,” pointed out Anna. She surveyed the room over the top of her fan. “Speaking of Wrexham, I wonder if he is here tonight?”

  “It doesn’t matter if he is. Trust me, the earl won’t willingly seek out my company.”

  “Oh?” Her sister’s voice held the tiniest note of smugness. “And yet, I saw him follow you behind the potted dahlias at Lady Battell’s ball.

  “Only because he was intent on having the last word in our argument. This morning, he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.” Olivia stared at the tips of her slippers. “By the by, they were lilac branches, not dahlias. I though a novelist was supposed to be observant.”

  “I’m interested in human nature, not plant life. And from what I observed, I wouldn’t be so sure that Lord Wrexham won’t ask you for another waltz.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” muttered Olivia, trying to still the little butterfly beating its wings inside her chest. The thought of dancing with him again shouldn’t stir such flutters. The man was all but engaged.

  To the Ste
el Corset, she reminded herself.

  So despite his intriguing smile, his sly sense of humor, and big, warm body, Wrexham must be, at heart, a rather cold prig who preferred a life caged by convention.

  “Davies is coming,” murmured Anna out of the corner of her mouth. “Will you be all right if I leave you alone?”

  “Of course,” she whispered back. “I couldn’t be happier—I’ve pencil and paper to partner me through the rest of this tedious evening. I’ll find my usual spot in the shadows.” She would, however, avoid sneaking off to private rooms, no matter how intriguing the games it contained. Her run-in with Wrexham had shown that the risks of a midnight encounter with a man, however accidental, were too high.

  They exchanged sisterly smiles, and then Olivia edged away from the milling couples. The one dance she had mastered was retreating from the crowd without drawing any notice. It required an intricate set of steps and just the right timing. Not too fast, not too slow…

  “Miss Sloane?”

  She started, and nearly tripped over her skirts.

  John caught her by the elbow. “Sorry. Did I startle you?”

  “No, of course not,” she replied. “I was just going to…” Loath to admit that she was going to assume her place as permanent wallflower of the beau monde, she looked around and spotted the French doors leading out to the balcony. “I was just going to get a breath of fresh air.”

  He offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you.”

  “It’s not at all necessary,” she said rather ungraciously.

  “Nonetheless, it would give me great pleasure.”

  She walked with him for several steps before casting a sidelong glance at his profile. “Then why, sir, do you look as if you’ve just eaten a piece of bad fish?”

  “You don’t ever mince words, do you, Miss Sloane?”

  “You should know the answer to that by now,” she countered. “And why should I bother? Most gentlemen can’t digest what I say, no matter how I slice things.”

  He chuckled. “I have a feeling your tongue could cut a fellow into tiny pieces if he weren’t careful.”