Simply Scandalous

by Tamara Lejeune

  Abruptly, he closed the door, forced her up against it, and kissed her, his hands buried in her thick hair. It was a fiery, undisciplined kiss, his tongue leaping wildly as he discovered her openness. Juliet welcomed it, her heart beating wildly as again and again his mouth closed over hers. When he was finished, he reluctantly released her but leaned his hands against the door on either side of her head.

  She reached up very deliberately and kissed his mouth. Unlike his kiss, hers was gentle, savoring, sweet. She touched his lips with the tip of her tongue. "There is not the least need for restraint with me," she whispered. "I'm yours if you want me."

  The weakness she saw in his eyes made her feel allpowerful, irresistible. Slowly, she pulled the laces of her ombre dress and shrugged out of it. As he watched, stunned, the silk crumpled at her feet, and she stood before him wearing only her white silk drawers, stockings, and satin slippers. Her hair covered her breasts, but almost defiantly, she pushed the long, dark curls aside ...

  Tamara Lejeune

  Even on the foggiest of London nights, there could be no mistaking Mr. Cary Wayborn for any other gentleman about town. In addition to a heliotrope greatcoat with numerous capes and buttons the size of copper pennies, Mr. Wayborn was known to wear spectacles filled with lavender glass, high-topped boots with silver tassels, and, most regrettably, an aubergine tricorn hat twenty years out of fashion, which even Miss Juliet Wayborn, his affectionate sister, could not look upon without wincing.

  It was, therefore, easy work for two shadowy underworld figures to follow that young gentleman from his club on St. James's Street; wait until he parted company with Mr. Eustace Calverstock, his friend from the City; then attack him from behind with short, heavy clubs. Piccadilly was a silent trench of fog as they dragged him into an alley and went to work.

  Their victim, who was more than a bit tipsy when the first blow cracked his skull, was unable to do anything to stop the rain of abuse that followed, being sprawled facedown upon the cobbles in a semiconscious state. Cary's walking stick was kicked from his hand to join his hat a few feet away. His left arm was very quickly broken, and it was only the unexpected return of Eustace Calverstock that saved his friend's right arm.

  Screaming for the Night Watch, Mr. Calverstock ran back into the thick, woolly fog. As he approached the scene, he heard one of the attackers unburdening himself of a few words, delivered in a rough Cockney accent: "There now, your honor! A present, if you like, from my Lord Swale, and sure you'll not be driving them chestnuts of yours to Southend in the morning!" Giving Cary a final kick in the ribs, he followed his cohort back into the misty stews of London, his leisurely pace demonstrating a long familiarity with the inefficiency of the Watch.

  "Did you hear that, Stacy?" Cary cried from the ground. Up until the moment his attacker had spoken, Cary naturally had assumed that he had met with a pair of footpads intent on stealing his purse and watch. "Swale has done this! Swale!"

  "He'll pay for it," Stacy Calverstock said grimly as he helped his friend to a sitting position. The amount of blood pouring from his friend's head was incredible. "Don't try to talk," he advised. "Your arm is broken, old man," he added, averting his eyes as blood always had a most disquieting effect upon his digestion.

  "I know it," Cary rasped, his jaw clenched against the pain. With his right hand, he began clawing at his cravat. Stacy, who had questioned his friend's wisdom, if not his sanity, at the time this purple-spotted neckcloth had been purchased, nonetheless saw its usefulness as a sling or a bandage, but before he could help Cary unravel its knot, they heard the Watchman's bell.

  Stacy froze. When he had called for the Watch, he had never supposed that anyone would actually answer. It was deuced embarrassing. He saw his friend's hat and stick lying in the street and hurriedly scooped them up.

  "Help me to my feet, for God's sake!" cried Gary. With sheer force of will, he beat down the pain and climbed to his feet. "Get me away from here before the Watch-"

  He broke off as a figure emerged from the fog, and a lantern swung before their eyes. "'Ere now!" cried a lusty voice not unlike that of Cary's attacker. "What's all this then?"

  The Watchman, despite the unusual diligence he had shown in responding to their cries, had arrived too late to intercept the miscreants, but he was just in time to embarrass the Gentry.

  "Nothing to concern you, Watchman," Stacy Calverstock said coldly. "You may go."

  "This gentleman don't appear well," the Watchman observed with less concern than satisfaction. "I'd be remiss in my duty-

  "Quite right," Stacy said crisply. "My friend is ill. He fell down and broke his head, as you see. I am taking him home. Good night." With Cary leaning heavily on his arm, he turned to go.

  `Just a minute, guy!"

  Stacy swore under his breath, but his injured friend managed a wan smile. "Yes, Watchman?"

  "Would these be your eyeglasses, sir?"

  Cary gingerly accepted the miraculously unbroken spectacles with his right hand. "Thank you, Watchman," he said, his voice faint but steady. "Sorry to trouble you on such a cold night. Heaven knows you should be safe in your box with a hot cup of tea."

  The Watchman stiffened. "I'd be remiss in my duty, sir-

  "Yes, yes!" Stacy said impatiently and tossed the man a silver coin. Then, half-carrying, half-dragging his friend, he turned into an alley leading back toward Piccadilly. "You need a bloody doctor," he told Cary, panting.

  Cary sagged in his arms. "I may need a doctor, but when I have done with Swale, he will be needful of the undertaker!" The bravado cost him; his legs gave way, and he sank to the ground.

  "Where do I take you?" Stacy demanded. "Not back to White's-"

  "Lord, no!" Cary forced his eyes open. "Take me to my sister, to Julie," he managed just before fainting for the first time in his life.

  Miss Juliet Wayborn, Stacy knew, was currently lodged with her aunt, Lady Elkins, at Number 17 Park Lane. Indeed, he had often taken tea at that excellent address, sometimes as late as eight o'clock in the evening, and had reason to believe he was a favorite of both the young lady and her aunt. All the same, Lady Elkins was unlikely to welcome the sight of his white-topped boots on the Axminster carpet in her front hall at half-past two in the morning.

  The Apricot Salon, so named for the pattern on the silk panels adorning its lofty walls, was soon bathed in the light of a hundred candles as curious servants brought their bedroom tapers down from the attics. Mr. Calverstock had never seen so many nightshirts and lace caps in all his life, and it seemed to him that every servant in all of Mayfair had joined the throng in Lady Elkins's salon before Huddle, her ladyship's maid, abruptly made the executive decision to wake Miss Juliet. Lady Elkins should not be disturbed, of course, for she was a lady of advancing years, much celebrated for her authentic tremors, megrims, and palpitations, but her niece was a young lady of stout constitution and steady nerves. Miss Juliet would best know what to do.

  As Cary was brought in, Mademoiselle Huppert, Miss Wayborn's very dashing French maid, wept singlemindedly into the curtains. The footmen formed a grave cabal at the mantelpiece, while Parker, the butler, regarded Stacy Calverstock with open hostility.

  "Not that sofa, if you please! " Parker exclaimed coldly, having mistaken Mr. Wayborn's deplorable condition for a drunken stupor. "It has just been recovered by Mr. Soho!"

  Another sofa untouched by the famous Mr. Soho was made available, and a footman brought a branch of candles. Cary's face was white as cotton wool, and streaked with blood.

  "He's been murdered, Mr. Parker!" cried a footman.

  Parker, shocked into civility, at once sent Tom for her ladyship's cognac.

  Huddle, meanwhile, had tiptoed past Lady Elkins's room to the smaller ch
amber currently occupied by her ladyship's niece and was approaching the bed.

  Miss Juliet Wayborn was by no means the ranking beauty of the Season, but the servants were proud of her all the same. She was a tall, dark-haired young lady whose intelligent gray eyes and patrician good looks tended to intimidate rather than attract the opposite sex.

  "She's not pretty," Huddle was fond of saying. "She's handsome." It was Huddle's considered opinion, based upon years of study, that serious young ladies like Miss Juliet tended to make better marriages than the more sensational beauties the society columns raved about. A quiet, elegant, dignified young lady like Miss Julie would appeal to men of sense, education, and property, and she would not be bothered by the rakes, wastrels, and frivolous young gentlemen with more hair than brains.

  A draft from the open door awakened Juliet, and she sat up, shivering. "Huddle?" she murmured, squinting at the figure holding a candlestick in one hand. In the next moment, she had thrown back the covers. "Is my aunt unwell?" she asked anxiously, reaching for her purple dressing gown.

  Huddle, usually such a sensible woman, lost no time in telling Juliet that Master Gary had been brought home to die. According to Lady Elkins's maid, there was neither a drop of blood left in his veins nor a bone in his body that hadn't been broken. To send for surgeons seemed futile, but perhaps there was still time to fetch a priest?

  Fearing the worst, her heart pounding, Juliet fastened her dressing gown and ran down the steps in her bare feet.

  Stacy Calverstock jumped as she entered the salon and discovered, to his surprise, that he could not take his eyes from her. He had always regarded Juliet as a well-behaved, feminine version of his friend Cary, and on those occasions when he found himself in her company, he had willingly accepted her as an amiable substitute for his friend, but never before had it struck him so forcefully that she was a desirable young woman of nineteen. He had always understood her to be seven years Cary's junior, and the mathematics of the situation were not beyond him, but seeing her in a silk and lace dressing gown with her rich dark hair unbound unaccountably threw him into confusion. Her wide gray eyes, usually so steady, were wild and fearful. He had never seen her looking so vulnerable or, he was forced to admit, so appealing.

  She made him wish that he were taller, handsomer, and, above all, richer.

  "Stacy!" she cried, rushing past the servants to take his hands. "What has happened to Cary?"

  Before he could answer, she caught sight of her brother. Cary, who was still bleeding freely from the head and clutching his left arm, was trying to sit up. "Don't worry, Julie," he croaked. "Don't ... make a fuss. Not as bad as it looks."

  She was at his side in an instant. "You priceless ass!" she remonstrated with all the fury of a devoted sister who has been given a bad fright. "What have you done to yourself? Lie down! You'll only make it worse."

  Her words proved true. Cary fell back onto the sofa and could not be roused again.

  "Has anyone sent for Mr. Norton?" his sister demanded.

  "No, Miss Julie," Parker said. "That is, Master Gary has just arrived."

  "Right!" said Juliet, recognizing that they were all looking to her for guidance. In just a few moments, she had the situation in hand. Tom was sent to fetch Mr. Norton, the surgeon, and the female servants were instructed to boil water and prepare bandages. Huddle was dispatched to her ladyship's medicine box for laudanum and antiseptic. Stacy and the second footman were enlisted to carry the injured man up to his sister's room, there being no fire lit in any other bedroom, with the exception of that of Lady Elkins. Juliet's clearheaded command of the situation impressed Mr. Calverstock greatly, and the servants seemed relieved to be given something to do.

  Stacy saw his friend laid on the bed, then hastened to assist Juliet in lighting a branch of candles. "Why do you stare at me as though you've never seen me before?" she asked him suddenly, frowning.

  "I beg your pardon! " he exclaimed, blushing. 'Was I?"

  "Help me get his boots off, for heaven's sake," she ordered him, hurrying over to the bed. When this task was accomplished, she calmly handed the footwear to the manservant. "Take them away and give them a good polish, Arthur," she instructed, as though her brother's prized high-topped boots were spattered with mud rather than blood. It was not to be doubted that the Wayborns knew how to carry on in the face of adversity. "Do what you can with his coat and hat."

  "Yes, Miss Julie."

  "Now then, Stacy," she said, turning to her brother's friend. "Come with me." Leaving Cary in the care of Huddle and Mademoiselle Huppert for the moment, she led her brother's friend down to the first floor.

  In the Apricot Salon, she spied the brandy on the tea tray. "Put the cognac away, Parker," she angrily commanded the butler. "You know perfectly well that's only for emergencies!"

  Mr. Calverstock, who could have done with a cognac at the moment, made as though to follow the butler from the room, but Julie rounded on him furiously. "I should very much like to know what you mean by bringing my brother home in this condition!" she said sharply.

  "My dear Miss Wayborn," he said feebly, acutely aware that he was addressing an attractive young female dressed for bed, "I feel certain that Cary would prefer to tell you himself when he is recovered."

  "Sit down at once, and tell me what happened," said Juliet in a tone that a rhinoceros would have obeyed. Stacy sat on the sofa recently recovered by the famed Mr. Soho and gave her a very spare and sanitized version of the evening's events. "I ran back as soon as I heard the noise," he finished. "By the time I got there, the damage was done, I'm sorry to say."

  Juliet exploded. "These murderous thieves must be captured and hanged! I shall write to Benedict at once."

  "No, don't! " Stacy cried, alarmed. It was said in Parliament that Sir Benedict Wayborn could shear the flesh from a man's body with a glance, and Stacy had reason to believe it was true. "On the whole, I'd say that Sir Benedict would rather not know."

  "You're right, of course," she agreed as Parker left the room. "And now, I think," she went on coldly, "I should like to hear the truth."

  His cheeks burned. "I assure you, Miss Wayborn-"

  "Nonsense!" she interrupted. "I know you are lying because you are calling me Miss Wayborn. Very odd, don't you agree, since we have been Christian-naming each other since you were ten and I was five? Of course, if you want me to call you Mr. Calverstock-"

  %,No!" he exclaimed. Suddenly, it was very important that he forever remain Stacy to her.

  "Very well then, Stacy," she said gently, "if Cary is in trouble, you must tell me. I'm smarter than both of you put together, though I admit that isn't saying much. I'll be able to tell you what to do."

  He could not help but smile at the notion that even so accomplished a young lady as Juliet might have anything to teach Mr. Cary Wayborn and Mr. Eustace Calverstock, two experienced men of the world. "The situation is well in hand," he assured her. "I know who is responsible for this night's work, and he will be held accountable."

  "Stacy!" she cried, her eyes lighting up with so much admiration he felt his heart begin to thud. "You caught the man who did this?"

  "Er ... no," he said.

  The admiration was replaced by annoyance. "You let him get away?" she cried in disgust. "Never mind! Who is he? Who is responsible for this outrage?" Suspicion suddenly entered her range of expressions. "Is it-is it gambling debts? Does Cary owe insane amounts of money?"

  "Certainly not!" he protested, his pale skin turning bright pink.

  She shook her head impatiently. "There is something you're not telling me. They did not even take his watch! And footpads and cutpurses do not typically beat their ... their victims with Turkish brutality, you know. "

  "No, I didn't know," he said, attempting a lofty tone. "Are you very well acquainted with the criminal class?"

  The lofty tone, never easy, became impossible as Juliet's hand flashed out and took a very firm hold on his nose. "I am holding your nose, Mr. Calverstock
," she informed him. "I shall go on holding your nose until you tell me what happened. You'll look pretty silly going back to your rooms at the Albany with Miss Wayborn attached to your nose. Better tell me," she added kindly, while tightening her hold. "Uncle?"

  "Uncle!" he agreed.

  She gave the Calverstock beak a vicious twist before releasing it.

  "The brutal Thuggee of India could learn from your methods," he complained, rubbing his nose. "All right! All right," he cried as she lifted her hand again. "I don't think they were footpads."

  She glared at him. "Well? What were they, Stacy? Jealous husbands?"

  He blushed. "Don't be silly!"

  "Not jealous husbands, not footpads," she murmured thoughtfully. "Not gambling debts. What then, hired assassins?" She laughed briefly at the absurdity of the idea.

  "Well... "

  "Hired assassins! "Juliet cried. "Are you mad? Why would you say such a thing?"

  "I didn't say it, in point of fact," he said, beginning to babble. "In point of fact, I haven't said anything. You can't say I've told you anything because I haven't."

  Juliet jumped to her feet. "And yet I heard you quite distinctly! Someone has hired assassins to kill my brother. And you say you know who is responsible? His assailants must have said something when they were beating him. What did they say?"

  "Something about the broken arm being a gift from Lord Swale," Stacy mumbled unhappily.

  "Swale? I've never heard of him," she declared, tossing her head. "He must be new. Ring for Parker, will you?"

  Since at that moment the butler was listening at the door, he was not long in arriving.

  "Parker, go and fetch the Peerage from her ladyship's sewing basket," the young lady commanded him. "I want the history, if any, of a creature called Lord Swale."

  Parker was astonished. Obviously, Miss Juliet was not thinking clearly. Fortunately, Mr. Calverstock spared him the embarrassment of having to tell the young lady that butlers do not fiddle with ladies' sewing baskets.

  "It's a courtesy title," Stacy explained. "Swale's father is the Duke of Auckland."