Mistress of Scandal

by Sara Bennett

  She had to find her daughter and warn her. But it was too late. Guests were arriving, and she could see Cook gesturing to her from the doorway, a look on her face that told Amy something had gone wrong in the kitchen.

  Surely, Amy asked herself, William would not propose until the ball was over? Let Francesca enjoy the ball, and then Amy would put a stop to this appalling situation once and for all.

  Francesca found herself dancing every dance. There seemed to be more partners than she knew what to do with, and her sisters were here, smiling and encouraging her. She looked about for Sebastian whenever she was able. She had sent him an invitation—without Uncle William’s knowledge—and he had sent a note this morning promising to come, saying he may be delayed. As yet he hadn’t appeared.

  Had he changed his mind?

  But that was nonsense. He loved her; he wanted to marry her. She trusted him with her life, and had done so more than once. He would come, she told herself. She mustn’t believe otherwise.

  Despite Amy’s concerns, and a slight problem with the cook’s cat taking a fancy to the ham, the supper was both lavish and delicious—even Toby would have difficulty making inroads on such a spread. Francesca sipped the lemonade her partner had fetched her and listened to the conversation. Vivianna’s husband, Oliver, was smiling at her, looking as devastatingly handsome as always, and there was Max, slipping his arm around Marietta when he thought no one was watching.

  The sight of her sisters’ happiness only made her more aware that Sebastian still wasn’t here. The secret that had sustained her so far began to weigh heavily upon her. All her life she had been afraid of being hurt, of her emotions leading her into heartbreak, of being the sort of woman who could not control her passions.

  Surely her fears had not come to pass?

  What if Sebastian abandoned her? She would be left alone, wandering the moors like a wraith. She pictured herself wearing one of Mrs. Hall’s dreadful dresses, wet and bedraggled, Wolf limping at her side. It really was a depressing image.

  She was so deep in her own concerns that she did not hear it at first. The stirring among the guests, the shifting and murmuring of the crowd. And when at last she looked up, just as a hush fell, her eyes widened in amazement.

  Aphrodite stood in the entrance to the supper room. As usual she was wearing black, and those closest to her had moved away, so that there was a large circle of open floor between her and them. She did not seem to notice. Diamonds flashed at her throat and on her fingers, and she lifted her chin proudly, and turned her head from side to side, searching for someone among those watching her.

  Francesca was about to step forward when someone grabbed her arm to stop her. “How dare you come here without an invitation!” Uncle William said loudly by her side.

  Aphrodite turned to the sound of his voice, and it was as if she’d found who she was looking for. “William,” she said in ringing tones. “So we meet again.”

  Francesca could see such fury in his eyes that she was stunned. He had shown this hatred of her mother before, and she had never really understood it. Was it really explained by her profession and the scandal he felt she brought to his family?

  “You are not wanted here,” he said. “You are not invited.”

  But Aphrodite was unfazed. She began to walk toward him, her black silk skirts rustling, and people moved aside to allow her to pass. “I apologize to my daughter for interrupting her evening,” she said. “But it cannot be helped. I must put an end to this now, for all our sakes. Before someone else is hurt. Or murdered.”

  The word riveted everyone. Not even a murmur passed the hundreds of lips.

  “You stupid woman—”

  “I have something to show you, William.”

  Francesca had never seen him so angry. His lean cheeks were flushed, his hands were shaking, and his words tumbled over themselves in his fury. “Get out! Get out now!”

  Aphrodite was holding up a piece of paper. She stretched her hand high above her, so that everyone could see it. William began to push his way toward her through the guests, knocking them aside, not caring who he offended. He was like a different man.

  “It is a letter,” she announced, anxiously watching his struggle. “It was written to me by Francesca’s father. He talks about his love for his daughter and his plans for her future. He talks about—”

  “Play!” William roared, gesturing at the orchestra. “Play, will you! What do you think you’re being paid for?”

  “He talks about leaving her all his money and his property, of making her his true and legal heir. He says that he wants Francesca to have it all.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” William shouted angrily. “Get out of my way!”

  Someone fell. There was a scream.

  “Mrs. Slater had this letter. Maeve stole it for her. This morning she recovered enough to give it to Mr. Thorne. You were meant to marry her daughter, William. She isn’t very happy with you.” She turned wildly, catching sight of Amy. “Amy, look, look! You must recognize the handwriting. It was penned by your brother Thomas. Thomas Tremaine was Francesca’s father.”

  Amy’s mouth dropped open. Helen gave a squeal and fell back into Toby’s arms. But William was staring in blind hatred at the woman who had just destroyed him. “You bitch,” he howled. “I always loathed you.”

  Aphrodite, pale and shaken, was unimpressed by his venom. “And I thought that you had loved me, once. You told me so often enough. Or was that just because you knew I had belonged to your brother, and it gave you some sort of twisted pleasure to have me, too?”

  “William,” Amy gasped, turning on him, “how could you? Francesca is your niece!”

  “But she wouldn’t have known it,” he said, with careless bitterness. “And I couldn’t let her take everything that belonged to me. Thomas told me, you know. He wrote to me at the same time and told me what he planned to do. I have been trying to find and destroy that letter for twenty-five years. And now it has destroyed me.”

  “You took my children!” Aphrodite cried. “You stole them from me so that you could keep what was not yours.”

  “If Mrs. Slater had her way they would have been smothered,” he said. “I let them live. I let my sister take them in. And now look to what straits my generosity has brought me. I should have given her her way. I was squeamish, and it’s been my downfall.”

  Francesca felt herself swaying. It was all too much. She couldn’t listen to any more…

  “Darling girl,” a voice murmured, and Sebastian wrapped his arm about her, pressing her tightly to his side. “I am so sorry. Madame insisted on a dramatic scene. It appears such things run in your family.”

  “Sebastian…” Relief. She clung to him, not caring who saw her. What did anything matter, after the scene they had just witnessed?

  William, ranting and raving, was taken in charge by several police. Then Sebastian was leading her through the crush, and it wasn’t until the door closed behind them that she realized he had brought her to the library. The smell of leather and cigar smoke made her feel nauseated, reminding her of Uncle William shouting, and her mention of the letter—the letter!—and the way he had seemed to change. It all made dreadful sense now.

  “Uncle William…” She tried to get the words out, but it was as if her throat had closed up.

  “He was always your enemy. He wanted you dead,” Sebastian said.

  “He kidnapped all three of us!”

  “I suppose he thought if he only took you someone might discover the truth.”

  “He left my mother all alone. He must have hated her to do that. He almost killed her…twice. Once through grief, and once through poison.”

  “Madame Aphrodite is a strong woman, my love. She has triumphed in the end. I don’t think William will be able to escape his fate this time. I might even be able to persuade Mrs. Slater to give evidence against him. She isn’t happy he didn’t marry her daughter as he promised, and instead took the oppo
rtunity to get rid of her.”

  “Yes. He deserves to be punished. He almost destroyed so many lives.” Francesca leaned against him, soaking up his strength. “I thought you weren’t coming,” she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder. “I thought you’d abandoned me, and I would have to wear black, like my mother, and go wailing on the moors.”

  “My love, I swear I will never leave you. You are all my happiness. Aphrodite was terrified that something would happen to you before she could confront your uncle. She said it had to be at the ball, before everyone. There had to be no way he could wriggle out of it, or allow someone else to take the blame.” He stroked her hair, then tilted her face up. “It is over. Mr. Thorne has completed his final case. I can set him aside with a clear conscience.”

  She returned his kisses.

  After a moment the portrait over the fireplace caught her eye. Two brothers, one smiling, the other cold-eyed. Thomas Tremaine, her father, gazed down on her, the man who loved adventure, who loved her. He had died in India with Sir Henry Greentree, his best friend, and Francesca had been brought up by his sister Amy. Was that a quirk of fate, or had William truly meant it to happen? Could she allow herself to believe there was some spark of goodness inside him?

  “I am a Tremaine,” she said quietly. A tear ran down her cheek, and then another. “How strange. I was taken in by my own family, and I never knew it.”

  “Here you are!”

  The door had been thrown open, and there was Vivianna, with Marietta close behind her. They looked pale, shaken by the events that had taken place, but relieved to find Francesca safe and sound. Two pairs of eyes went immediately to Sebastian, who was still holding her in his arms.

  Behind her sisters, Francesca could see Amy, and Aphrodite, and Helen and Toby. It seemed that everyone had come to find her. Her family. She heard Sebastian clear his throat.

  “I have an announcement to make,” he said. “Francesca and I are to be married.”

  And after all that had happened, or perhaps because of it, the cheers were deafening.

  Epilogue

  Francesca sighed and picked out a book that looked as if it might hold her interest. She tucked it safely under her arm and opened the door into the hall. Wolf was waiting for her, lying sprawled on the rug on the floor of Worthorne’s great hall. He lifted his head with a yawn, and she set the lamp down on a table and bent to scratch him behind the ears.

  “We miss him, boy, don’t we?” she murmured. “The manor seems empty without him. When do you think he’ll be home, hmm? It’s already been four days.”

  Wolf didn’t have an answer, and with another sigh Francesca straightened and…there was someone behind her.

  Big, warm hands grasped her upper arms in a firm grip. For a moment she froze, enveloped in a familiar male scent, and then she pulled free and backed away. Her heart was thundering in her ears, but fear had already given way to excitement and anticipation.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” she whispered dramatically.

  “I am the ravisher of Worthorne Manor and I want you,” he declared.

  There was a moment when neither of them spoke or moved, and then Francesca threw her book at his chest, crying, “Then you’ll have to catch me,” and took off across the hall to the side door.

  Sebastian glanced at Wolf, winked, and ran after her. Wolf put his head back down on his paws and closed his eyes as if he’d seen it all before.

  Sebastian knew where she was going. She always went there. It was her favorite adventure, and he had to admit it was one of his favorites, too. He’d been thinking about her all the way home from London, where business had taken him, and to find her in her nightgown, with the light of the lamp shining through the thin cloth and outlining her curves…

  Sheer heaven.

  Outside, the night was clear and warm. He could see her ahead of him, her pale nightgown fluttering in the dusk like moth wings. She tossed aside her shawl, as if it might slow her down, and then she lost her slippers. He cut through the orchard, ducking beneath boughs heavy with fruit, disturbing a family of owls.

  She had almost reached the calm waters of the lake when he caught up with her. Hearing his steps and turning to see him almost upon her, she shrieked and tried to outpace him. He caught her, and after a brief struggle, they sank down onto the grass. She was breathing hard, but laughing, too.

  “I have missed you,” she gasped, clinging to him.

  “Of course you have. I’m your grand passion, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” she whispered, dark eyes hazy with love.

  He kissed her then, and by the time he’d finished she was no longer interested in running. That was good. He’d ridden hard to get home tonight, and he was eager to love his wife as she was meant to be loved.

  “Francesca,” he said, and set little butterfly kisses on her hair, her cheeks, her eyelids. He felt the wild beat of her heart as he cupped his hand around her soft, full breast.

  She squirmed, drawing him closer. To be lying in the grounds of Worthorne Manor with his wife was his perfect fantasy.

  Well, almost.

  Sebastian reached to divest her of her nightgown, tossing it aside and looking down on her creamy nakedness.

  Now, it was perfect.

  About the Author

  SARA BENNETT has always had an interest in history, and to survive a series of mind-numbing jobs, she turned to writing historical romance. She lives in an old house with her husband and two children in the state of Victoria, Australia, where she tries to keep the house and garden tidy, but rarely succeeds—she’d rather be writing or reading.

  You can write to her at www.sara-bennett.com (don’t forget the hyphen!) or Publicity Department, Avon Books, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022-5299.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  MISTRESS OF SCANDAL. Copyright © 2007 by Sara Bennett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  ePub edition March 2007 ISBN 9780061748097

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