A Proper Scandal

by Charis Michaels

  “The problem,” Elisabeth continued, “is that he pretends to be in complete agreement with me—’tis not a social call—but then he goes and arranges for your service as chaperone. Either it is or it isn’t. And it’s not.”

  “Right,” said Jocelyn cautiously. “I . . . I had no idea. I pride myself on discernment, but Lord Rainsleigh gave no clue of presumption or aggressiveness that would be, er, unwelcome. In fact, he approached me with the utmost regard for your reputation. Very adamant about it, he was. I assumed that you were the source of his concern—or your family.”

  Lady Elisabeth closed her eyes and shook her head.

  Well, that settles it, Jocelyn thought. She took a deep breath and stood. “Clearly, if the viscount presumes too much, then indeed I am not required. But my lady? If I might be so bold as to suggest, it would be your responsibility, I’m afraid, to make this very clear to him. That is, if you do not wish to entertain him in this way—if you do not enjoy him . . . ”

  Lady Elisabeth looked up, and the expression on her face—the sudden blush, the bit lip, the wide eyes—told Jocelyn everything she needed to know about whether Elisabeth enjoyed the viscount or not.

  Jocelyn sat back down. Perhaps it’s not settled.

  Elisabeth said quietly, “It doesn’t matter if I enjoy him or not. He need not come here. What he needs is to stay away. This is the solution. He’s come once already. He’s seen the way I run the program. He’s even promised the money. Why come again?”

  “Oh, he’s coming, I’m afraid. I heard him explain his devotion to his secretary when he took me on. If he does not have an earnest interest in your charity work, he may be using it as an excuse. He appeared very anxious to see you.”

  “Oh, God.” Elisabeth stood up. “When did my charity become an excuse? Most people run from this charity, did you know?” She began to pace.

  Jocelyn shook her head.

  Lady Elisabeth continued. “You know who we serve? What we do here? I’m rehabilitating young women who were forced or fell into prostitution. You might as well know.”

  Jocelyn said calmly, “I suspected as much.”

  “Well, you’re very astute.”

  “I am accustomed to observation.”

  “Right. Of course you are. Then, I suppose you’ve observed that I am thirty years old. That I run this foundation entirely on my own. That I am in the habit of near-complete independence. I live with my aunt, the Countess of Banning, and she and I are close, but she can’t be bothered with playing governess to me—and thank God for that. We have our own rapport, and it suits us. My life would represent an exhausting challenge to any chaperone.”

  Jocelyn chuckled. “No one could be more exhausting than my last charge.”

  “Hmmm,” Elisabeth said dismissively, still pacing. “How many girls have you spirited down the aisle, Miss Breedlowe? If you don’t mind my asking? You seem rather young.”

  “Only one, in fact. My first charge was the neighbor of Lord Rainsleigh, Lady Falcondale—formerly Miss Piety Grey. They are abroad at the moment, away on a year-long trip, but they were friendly with the viscount before they left. Lord Rainsleigh is highly regarded by the earl, I believe. And my former charge, Lady Piety, seems to feel the same.”

  She paused, watching Elisabeth pace nervously around the small room. After a moment, Jocelyn continued. “It is accurate to say that I am not a veteran chaperone, Lady Elisabeth. And although Piety did marry Lord Falcondale, I had very little, if anything, to do with the union. It was their own complicated journey. I . . . I hope I do not offend you by revealing that I am not in the business of marrying off young women.”

  Lady Elisabeth made a scoffing noise. “Now you’ve endeared yourself to me even more.”

  Jocelyn smiled. “I am available to . . . support you, if you care for support. And to keep things properly done, which seems to be a priority for the viscount.”

  “It is the viscount’s lofty priorities that I am trying to protect. By restricting his visits.”

  Jocelyn nodded. “The viscount does not strike me as a man easily restricted.”

  Elisabeth made a sound of frustration and dropped onto the couch next to her. “The viscount is a man too restricted. He is painfully aware of what other people assume. He suffered a difficult boyhood; his parents were far worse than neglectful. Now he tries to make up for their bad behavior by attaining perfection himself. Perfection is a very narrow path to travel.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “As much as I need his money, I am convinced that my charity is wrong for him. I am wrong for him.”

  “Forgive me if I suggest that he does not seem to think so.”

  “Yes,” she said, and Jocelyn saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. “But he’s got it wrong. He does . . . not . . . know.”

  “He does not know the nature of your charity?” Jocelyn prodded softly.

  “No,” she whispered. “He knows what we do here.”

  “Then what does he not know?”

  She sniffled. “Me.” The word was barely audible. “Not genuinely. Honestly. I’m sorry; I’ve burdened you with far too much detail.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” said Jocelyn after a moment. “I’ve come all the way here. I might as well do some good before I go. Even if it is only to listen.” She glanced at Elisabeth, who had closed her eyes. Elisabeth took a deep breath and laid her arm across her brow. She opened one eye and peeked at Jocelyn from beneath her sleeve.

  This was another look Jocelyn knew. “If there is more to tell,” Jocelyn said gently, “I should be happy to listen.”

  And then, while Jocelyn sat quietly beside her, Lady Elisabeth revealed to her a great personal secret. Speaking through some tears but more often in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, Lady Elisabeth informed Jocelyn of an unbelievable chapter of her own past—a past in which the viscount played an unwitting part.

  When she was finished, they sat for many minutes in silence.

  Finally, Elisabeth said, “He deserves an unsullied woman to make his wife. There are so few men about whom I could say this and mean it, but he is one of them.”

  “I wonder if it is fair to speak for him, my lady,” Jocelyn ventured.

  “Perhaps not. But I can speak for myself. I’m not sure I could put myself through the agony of saying the words to him. Of revealing it all to him. I’m not sure I could.”

  This admission hung in the air until it was dissolved by silence.

  As with most things, there was a way it could be done. Elisabeth could find proper timing and courage and words. But Jocelyn would not invalidate her fear by trying to explain it away.

  She put her hand on top of Elisabeth’s and waited. When the younger woman spoke again, she implored Jocelyn to keep her confidence. “I cannot say what compelled me to burden you with it,” Elisabeth said, leaning her head back. “We’ve only just met, and I tried to sack you before you’d even begun.”

  “I am honored that you trusted such a personal circumstance to me, and you may rest assured that I will tell no one.” Jocelyn paused. “I think, perhaps, it is the unknown, the anonymity of our first meeting that has allowed you to speak so freely.”

  “No,” said Elisabeth, swallowing, “ ’tis you. I felt an immediate trust when you crossed my threshold. You took in the surroundings and showed absolutely no reaction. You were incredibly gracious with Mabel. I like you, Miss Breedlowe, and this is a rare thing indeed. There are very few people in London’s established hierarchy that I actually like.”

  “But you like the viscount? The incredibly established viscount?”

  Elisabeth dropped her head into her hands. “I’m behaving like a blathering, infantile ninny,” she whispered. “Truly, I never cry. And I never enjoy anyone on first sight. And I never cry. And now look, all in the span of a morning. You should hear the atrocities endured by the girls who come into my care. That is the abuse that should bring tears to my eyes. These girls should be my only concern, but no. He has driven me
to this. Oh, it was better before I met him, when I only just remembered him fondly.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the heel of her hand, turning away.

  Jocelyn put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “There is a particular strain of wretchedness that can come only from heartache.”

  “My aunt believes I should simply tell him. All of it. Immediately. That he will understand.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “That I should remove myself from his life before he is ever the wiser.”

  Jocelyn raised one eyebrow.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Both women jumped at sound from the door.

  “He’s here.” Elisabeth stood, staring in the direction of the hallway.

  Jocelyn rose beside her. “Likely. If you are not expecting anyone else.”

  Her eyes did not leave the door. She shook her head.

  Jocelyn ventured, “My lady? Would you prefer I go?”

  “No.” A firm shake of the head. “Stay. Please.” Elisabeth looked at her. “If you will. Unless it is more than you hoped to take on.” She laughed without humor. “Well, of course it is that.”

  “On the contrary, my lady. ’Tis precisely what I had hoped to take on. ’Tis more.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  With Jocelyn Breedlowe in place as chaperone, Rainsleigh wasted no time commencing the courtship. If Elisabeth did not agree to it in so many words . . . well, this did not keep the viscount from trying. Two days later, he asked her to dinner in his home, along with her aunt. Politely, she declined.

  A day after that, he invited her to an evening at his box at the Adelphi Theatre for a performance of The Magic Pipe. Again, she sent her regrets.

  Twice, he called on her at Denby House. Both times, he was uninvited, unexpected, and suspiciously close to tea. Thankfully, she was not home.

  It pained her to decline him and not just because it was not her nature to be dismissive or introverted, but because she wanted to see him. They’d only just begun to learn each other, and there was so much more to know. He seemed to her a tightly wound clock—the minute hand was all tasteful propriety and the hour hand, stupendous wealth. The connected inner workings of the two fascinated and beguiled her. She found herself preoccupied by the thought of unwinding him.

  And this thought brought her, always, back to the kiss. The feel of his large hands, fastening around her waist. The startling moment her tongue teased his bottom lip. The thrill of him deftly spinning her, backing her against the wall.

  The memory haunted her at the most inopportune times, which was to say, all of the time. It swam in her consciousness as she tried to fall asleep. It broke the concentration in her quiet office while she endeavored to work. It lodged in her throat when Aunt Lillian asked her something, and she went sputtering, speechless, and blank. Like the village idiot. Like a woman possessed.

  Never was it so apparent as on the journey from her office to Denby House at the end of each day, when she speculated on the contents of her aunt’s silver calling-card tray. She wondered, with equal parts hope and trepidation, if his card would be there. She concocted a plausible excuse for any request that he might have made, all the while fighting off the fear that the tray would be empty.

  Her aunt was little help, she of the round-the-clock cry of Tell him. Quincy agreed with her, as always. Stoker could not have cared less, as long as the discussion did not involve shipping him off to school.

  It was Jocelyn, now woefully underused as a chaperone but, delightfully, a new friend who had taken to volunteering at the foundation, who offered the redeeming suggestion to which Elisabeth now clung: If she and Rainsleigh did not suit, then he never need know about their shared past. And the only way she would know if they suited was to spend time with the man.

  They must interact, Jocelyn suggested, to know if Elisabeth’s charity was too provocative or if he was too rigid to accept the terrible secret that she would, one day, be forced to tell him.

  Guessing about it was neither fair nor accurate. They must know for sure.

  To that end, she must give herself permission to accept some number of his courtship requests.

  It seemed indulgent and cursory and too good to be true, but Elisabeth, God help her, embraced it and agreed to his very next call. He suggested a ride through Hyde Park, but Elisabeth countered with a request that they share a visit to the British Museum. Naturally, he would assume touring the exhibits and taking tea at the cafe, but Elisabeth had other plans.

  If the purpose of spending time with the viscount was to determine their suitability, then she intended to deluge him with as many unsuitable aspects of her life as possible. Beginning with Stoker, who studied with his history tutor on Tuesdays at the museum.

  Rainsleigh’s regard for the boy and for Elisabeth’s role in his life would be very telling, indeed.

  “Do you have a mind for which exhibit you’d like to see?” Rainsleigh asked Elisabeth and Jocelyn, who accompanied them as chaperone. They mounted the great rise of stone steps to the museum entrance on the morning of this first official social call. “I haven’t been to this museum in five years, at least.”

  Elisabeth kept her voice light. “Not what I wish to see, actually, but whom. I’ve brought you to the museum to meet a friend.”

  “A mummified pharaoh, perhaps?”

  “No, although we might find my friend among the artifacts of Ancient Egypt. He is fascinated by that exhibit.”

  She felt him tense beside her. “Your friend is a gentleman?” The question, however nonchalant, sounded forced.

  She shook her head. “No. A boy. Well, a young man, not yet eighteen. You’ve seen him before. I was lecturing him in the stairwell the night you attended Aunt Lillian’s party. He’s called Stoker.”

  Rainsleigh stopped walking. “A servant? We’ve come to the British Museum to call upon a servant?”

  It was then that Miss Breedlowe asked to be excused to view the Mayan retrospective on beads and headdresses. Elisabeth encouraged her—they had tacitly agreed she might amble away if she could—and the chaperone hurried off.

  Rainsleigh watched her scurry to an opposite hall, his expression unsure. Naturally, he was confused. Elisabeth couldn’t blame him. Meeting a servant in the bowels of the dim, smoky British Museum was nothing like the ride in Hyde Park he had suggested. She suffered the first wave of doubt. Perhaps it would have been fairer to everyone to simply tell him that they didn’t suit and refuse all offers.

  There was little to do but put on a cheerful smile, gesture in the direction of Stoker’s usual study spot, and lead the way. While they walked, she told him about Stoker and his life, beginning with his essential role in the foundation. She explained the number of girls he had rescued and his years of loyalty to her. Next she touched on his years of scholarship—his early interest in learning, her effort to teach him, and the eventual hiring of tutors. She and Aunt Lillian shared the cost of his education, she told him. Finally, she explained the university in Yorkshire that had accepted him as a student for the autumn term. The only omission was Elisabeth’s initial meeting with the boy and why he’d sought out her, in particular. It was important to her to be honest and open in everything, except that very specific and painful intersection in their lives.

  After she’d said this much, they wound their way through the dark, lantern-lit stairwell of the museum in silence. What more could she say? Hers was a narrative, she knew, that would send most noblemen sprinting to the door, likely laughing all the way. Rainsleigh was silent, but he remained.

  “Ah yes, there they are,” she finally said, closing in on a long polished table in a book-lined alcove adjacent to the hall on Ancient Rome, his tutor’s preferred spot.

  “Stoker enjoys Roman history most of all,” she rattled on, more nervous now. “Until a few years ago, Mr. Bridges worked with him in Denby House. But the resources here are staggering.” She called to the two bent figures at the table. “Hello, Mr. Bridges! Stoker?
Look alive, if you please. I’ve brought someone to meet you. ’Tis a viscount, so you must employ your very best manners.”

  The duo pushed from their chairs and snatched hats from their heads. Mr. Bridges spouted his usual welcomes and how-do-you-dos. Stoker nodded and said nothing, staring at the floor.

  “Stoker,” intoned Elisabeth, “may I introduce his lordship, Viscount Rainsleigh. He is the gentleman who may donate the money we need to hire a whole cadre of men to work in your place when you go to school.”

  Stoker glanced up, studied the viscount, and then returned his stare to the floor.

  Mr. Bridges scrubbed a chubby hand over his bald head and said, “Stoker still suffers from a few misgivings about the university, I’m afraid.”

  Elisabeth crossed her arms over her chest. “Stoker, I’d like you to look up, fix a pleasant expression on your face, and greet Viscount Rainsleigh. Then, I should like you to share with us your progress on the two things I’ve asked you to research since we last spoke.”

  Slowly, with the least amount of enthusiasm or free will, Stoker cocked his head and mumbled, “How do you do?”

  “How do you do?” Rainsleigh repeated.

  The youth nodded to his boots.

  Elisabeth prompted, “And my two requests?”

  Another shrug.

  “There’s a good lad, Jon, out with it,” urged Mr. Bridges gently, nervously tapping a finger on the tabletop.

  “It’ll take seven days to reach Yorkshire,” the boy finally recited. “And seven days to come back. But I haven’t looked at the courses, so I can’t say about the other.” He looked up then, his face full of determined hurt.

  “Stoker . . . ” she began, but he moved away from the table and trudged to an adjacent glass box containing a crumbling artifact.

  Elisabeth sighed deeply and followed, waving the tutor away. Stoker was not, by nature, a contrary boy—he wanted to please her—but he could not seem to accept this chance at a better life.

  She rested her hand on the glass box beside him. “Are you anxious, Stoker, about being in school with the other boys? Is that it? Or is it the raids? Because you and I will devote the summer to selecting and training these new men.”