In Search of Scandal (London Explorers #1)

by Susanne Lord

  Panting hard, Will pulled his heavy flesh from her and lifted her to stand on unsteady legs. His face was flushed and his eyes wide open, but he was quick to embrace her before she could study him.

  His heartbeat thundered against her cheek until he stepped back to put himself back in his pants and fumble at his trouser buttons. She threaded her arms tentatively about his neck, but his eyes shied from hers. Will swept a light kiss on her lips and released her.

  And she stood where he left her.

  What was happening? They knew every inch of each other’s bodies, and yet he was so distant. Was this marriage? Did you trade one intimacy for another?

  I don’t want this.

  The revelation startled her like a slamming door.

  She didn’t want this. She didn’t want a marriage without love. She didn’t want a husband who could leave his family a week, let alone the entirety of an expedition. This was not enough. It would never be enough. How had she ever imagined…?

  Yet she had imagined.

  Cold panic crept over her skin. There was so little time left. It was the end of July. Somehow, her life had become hostage to the calendar. Her courses were late twelve days. Seventeen days and she would be late again. Twelve days after that…Will would sail.

  What had she done?

  The silence was terrible. Will combed his fingers through his hair, but she could make no attempt to appear normal.

  With an intense air, Will wiped the surface of the table with his palm, but returned to slide an arm about her waist. His need to touch her was apparently too strong an urge to resist today.

  “Would you go for a walk with me?”

  She blinked at the abrupt question. “A walk? There is to be rain.”

  Will scowled at the closed curtains. “Is there anywhere you wish to go? You wanted a hat for your yellow gown.”

  She smiled more from dismay than amusement at the strange offer. “You would dislike shopping with me. Everyone dislikes shopping with me.”

  His eyes swept the maps and she could have sworn she saw a flare of anger. But it was gone when he turned back. At last, at last, he looked into her eyes. But there was a plea in their depths. “I’m not inclined to work today.”

  She didn’t know what to say and yet Will’s eyes beseeched her to speak. Now was the moment to ask him to stay, to never leave her.

  But this was the one test she feared Will would fail.

  He lifted her hand, kissed her palm. And didn’t let go.

  “You seem…distracted. Is there something wrong?”

  He was quiet a moment, then shook his head. “No, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

  Her heart sank, feeling again the wall he kept between them. “Is there something you wish to do?”

  He shrugged, and twined a curl of her hair around his finger. “I don’t know. Anything with you is fine.”

  Her heart buckled. Oh no. No, there was no falling out of love with Will Repton. “My only plan for the afternoon was to tend to Lucy’s flowers in the orchid house.”

  “I might be of some use there.” He tugged her close and pressed her head into his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was too rough.”

  She opened her mouth to protest but he spoke before she could.

  “I’ll not be able to dine with you. I have that appointment this evening.”

  “With Mr. Mayhew?”

  “Hmm? Right.”

  Doubt flickered through her mind. Was he really going to visit Mr. Mayhew this evening?

  But if not, what was he doing?

  Twenty-four

  The lecture theater at the Royal Institution was filled to capacity. Every seat on the semicircular risers was occupied from the front of the room to the back wall where men and women stood three bodies deep.

  Will waited for his introduction, his papers rolled in a fist. Too many women were in the audience. The transfer of his lecture from the modest Geographical Society office on Waterloo Place to the larger-capacity Royal Institution on Albermarle had been necessary to accommodate the number—and as the RI had no restrictions against women, dozens had come.

  Charlotte couldn’t have learned of it…there wouldn’t have been time. Still, he couldn’t shake the niggling sense she was somehow near.

  He scanned the crowd but the excited audience stood in the aisles, blocking his view.

  No, Charlotte was safe at home, believing he was meeting with Seth.

  What a bloody horrible husband he was. There’d always been a deficit of truth in their relationship, and here was another withholding.

  And yet Charlotte withheld nothing. Even when he’d taken her this afternoon.

  He gripped his temples, fighting the shame flooding him. He could have hurt her. Had he? He’d never been rough before. Preparing for today’s lecture had weakened him somehow, left him vulnerable to his dark memories. And sweet Charlotte had sensed the change in him, moving quietly around him, laying gentle touches on his arm. And when they made love—Christ, when they made love, he’d taken her with a desperation that sought her light, her happy spirit. Her love.

  But this afternoon, he’d gone too far.

  Damn it all, let’s get on with it. Will marched to the lectern and waved off the RI fellow meant to introduce him. The crowd hushed and he swept them with an unseeing eye. They had no interest in the collection work of his crew. They sought to satisfy bloodier urges.

  “Good evening. I am William Repton.” Will breathed deep but kept his gaze lowered. “In the winter of 1843, I, along with a crew of four others, was jointly commissioned by the East India Company to procure tea plants for propagation in our nation’s plantations in India…”

  And for the next half hour, he spoke of the collection work, the travel into the border provinces of Western China, the difficulties in dealing with the various bureaucracies. Then the time came to address what the audience had come for.

  “The last portion of this evening’s address”—his throat tightened—“concerns the native aggression of a band of Tibetan marauders against the foreign presence comprised of my British crew and the French mission of Father Marcel Bourianne on December twenty-fourth, 1849.

  “Antiforeign sentiment was not unknown to us. The Catholic mission had long abandoned efforts of religious conversion. They focused their efforts instead on an exchange of cultural information and goodwill between the French and Tibetans.

  “My crew had taken the Qamdo Pass on our journey to Bhutan, but we were intercepted by local authorities who did not honor our passports and demanded we break our travel at the mission until a ruling could be made as to whether we could proceed. At the time of the incident, we had spent eight days with the French missionaries. On the ninth day, I trekked several miles uphill, alone, to take a survey of the land. The daylight had faded, so I returned to camp at the mission.”

  The drought…then the blood…

  He saw it all again. The body splayed in the dirt, drenching the thirsty ground with his blood. That body was Owen Cressman of Nottingham. Cressey. His best friend.

  An arm stretched from the door¸ motionless. Jack. And inside the mission…

  Dead. All dead…

  “I discovered—” a slaughter. He cleared his throat roughly. “I discovered…”

  The audience shifted in their seats, waiting.

  He closed his eyes. And knew he couldn’t do this.

  He couldn’t speak of how the bandits must have descended from the ridge and overtaken his friends, overtaken them all. Couldn’t speak of seeing Père Bourianne staked to the ground, not yet dead but disemboweled.

  He couldn’t speak of the drought and how the ground was arid, thirsty, and there was nothing to muffle the sound of his steps so they heard him and chased him. Of how he saw Emile dead in the brush. How he ran and lost his footing and fell, breaking the bones in his leg. And how the fall had saved his life because he’d fallen so far. Of how he bled—and Christ, the thirst—until the shepherd found him.<
br />
  How he was transported, near dead with fever and infection, to Xiaduxiang, where no one claimed him, but he was carried onto a Dutch supply ship anyway and sent down the Yangtze and transferred to the HMS Jupiter. And returned home.

  No. He wouldn’t speak of that.

  Will folded his papers.

  “I suppose it’s the experience of every human being to feel pain, to see cruelty. To ask, again and again, why things happen. And to regret.”

  He raised his head. “My wife told me I would be looked to as a messenger.” He took a deep breath, and then he could almost smile. “And she loved reading about the places I traveled, and the good people I met. So tonight I will not speak of the massacre. That is not a message I will ever give.”

  The audience didn’t applaud or raise their hands. A sort of dull confusion settled over them and they avoided his eyes, avoided each other’s eyes. Slowly, and in silence, they began to rise to their feet and make for the doors.

  To his left, a pale oval face did not look away. And he nearly dropped to his knees.

  Charlotte.

  He pushed from the lectern, seeing only her bloodless face. Hurtling up the aisle, he pulled her from her seat and nearly carried her to the hall. “Charlotte? Sweetheart? Christ, why are you here?”

  She blinked and her face crumpled. Clinging to him, she breathed jagged, hitching breaths into his neck.

  “Charlotte?” He tried to look into her face but she hid. Ignoring the gaping people all about them, he tried to shelter her from their stares. Goddammit…not like this. “It’s all right. I’m so sorry. I should have told you, you should have known.”

  She trembled but stood on her own two feet. And she was bracing him right back. “I love you.”

  Damn it, why did she have to say that now?

  And why was it all he needed to hear?

  The vise on his chest eased. Thank God for her. Somehow she understood. Of course she did. The woman could think circles around him and leave him in knots.

  “I never wanted you to know of the killing,” he said gruffly.

  Her small fist thumped his back. “Well, obviously.” Her scold squeaked, but she raised her chin, her beautiful face streaked with tears. “You will not hide the truth anymore. Not now that I know.” A spasm of emotion flashed across her face, but she steadied her chin. “You will share every stupid, trifling observation, even if it is only to say you dislike the anchovy toast or my hatpin is hideous or you feel logy, because if you sit silent and brooding as you are wont to do, I will imagine you suffering unspeakable torments and I will not endure that.”

  He nodded obediently. He even followed most of that. “I will, I promise.”

  “Good.” She sniffed. “That is my seventh requirement.”

  On this wretched day, at this horrible hour, only Charlotte could make him smile. “We’re far beyond seven, sweetheart.”

  She shrugged and wiped her nose, her voice muffled beneath her handkerchief. “Well, I lost count.”

  Her face was a mix of worry and love, but when she lifted her gaze to his, a stone lodged in the pit of his stomach.

  She wouldn’t ask…please, God, don’t let her ask…

  He shook his head even before she spoke. “Please, you don’t understand—there’s a…”

  He trailed off when she slid his hand to her warm belly.

  “Mrs. Repton?” The loud male voice broke the spell of their intimate circle. Seth hurried toward them from the lecture hall. “Are you all right?”

  Charlotte pulled out of his arms. “Yes, Mr. Mayhew. Thank you.”

  Seth’s face was a shifting mask of stony anger and fear. “I’m sorry to be interrupting.”

  His deep voice rumbled strangely. As if with fear.

  Seth pulled a square of yellowed paper from his pocket. “I got a letter from George. And in it was a letter for you, Will. George assumed I’d know how to reach you.”

  Will’s heart lodged in his throat. He eyed the paper in Seth’s fist, the inked words smeared nearly illegible.

  “George went into Tibet.” Seth’s voice rasped, urgent and bitter, like a hand reaching out to choke the nearest man it could find.

  Will ripped his gaze from the letter and found Seth’s glare trained on him. “I’m sorry. I never thought George would—”

  “Bombay’s where they’re headed next, the letter says.” A muscle flexed in Seth’s jaw. “You heard the baby cry. It was in your report. She was alive when you ran.”

  His heart pounded, but he met Seth’s steely glare.

  “You might’ve saved her. But you ran.” Seth crammed the letter into Will’s hand. “Read it.”

  And without another word, Seth stormed off.

  Twenty-five

  Dear Mr. Repton:

  In regards to your Inquiry…British expeditionary crew led by R. Milford, of which I serve in the capacity of botanical illustrator: we are advised…possible survival of an infant…Bourianne family of the Mission Estrangeres, of which you were acquainted before their demise…

  …colleague recently returned from the village of Langxiang…rumor of a foreign (white) orphan of a like age and gender…will attempt a crossing of the Tibet border and ascertain if there is any truth to this information. If we are fortunate to meet with such a happy outcome…endeavor by all means to secure the child…

  If we are successful, I shall be obliged…enlist those living relations…the necessary arrangements for the reception of the child…return to England.

  …further communication at my earliest opportunity.

  Yours faithfully, G. Mayhew

  11 May, 1850

  With a hand that shook, Charlotte raised the carriage blind higher to make use of the lamplight and read the fragile letter again, patching together the meaning of the smeared words. In the dim interior, Will sat across from her, his skin pale and his eyes so empty he might have been a waxwork. The carriage outside the Royal Institution was at a standstill due to the traffic, but he hardly seemed to notice. He’d not said a word since reading the letter.

  Charlotte lowered the letter into her lap. “I don’t understand. An infant?”

  The tremors in her body deepened. Already shaken by all Will had endured and the horrible, confusing things Mr. Mayhew had said, the truth rolled over her and crushed her into her seat.

  Will’s nightmare wasn’t over.

  She understood so much now. Even more than Will’s lecture had made her understand. His nightmares, his guardedness. His need to return.

  In that instant, her dream he would stay, her dream of some clean, fresh beginning crumbled. And she could barely ask the question… “There were children there?”

  Will moved to sit beside her, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together. “Two.”

  She gripped his hand. “Tell me.”

  And for the first time, he did. He told her everything omitted from the lecture, as if lashed by the memories. Every detail until his back hunched and his face burrowed into her lap and his fists nearly rent the seam of her skirt in two. “I found everyone but her. I ran to her cot, but it was empty and…I heard them coming, heckling, and I was screaming for her, for anyone, but they were dead—and damn me to hell, I ran. I ran away—”

  He ran…

  Oh God…

  “Charlotte, I couldn’t find her. I ran—”

  “I’m glad.” She said the words loud and defiant because he wouldn’t. “I’m glad you ran and stayed alive.” Bending low, she held him with all her strength. She hated them for hurting him, for making him so afraid that day, for hurting him still.

  She waited, stroking his golden hair, not wanting to ask but knowing he needed her to. “What is the baby’s name?”

  “Aimee. I…I heard her cry. I’d fallen and broken my leg. I heard her cry and I couldn’t get to her. She was alive somewhere. When I ran, she was alive—”

  Pain tore through her heart and she buckled in two over him, clamping a hand over her lips befor
e she cried out.

  Alive.

  Aimee was the reason Will was never going to stay. And the reason she had to let him go, even knowing now how dangerous the search would be.

  And yet, all this time…she’d harbored the smallest flicker of hope he might stay.

  Oh God…God, she was prone to fanciful notions.

  She took a deep breath. “You want to find her.” It was not a question.

  Will straightened from her lap and wiped his face. He cleared his throat roughly but stared straight ahead. A muscle worked in his jaw. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I’m sorry I didn’t save her then. I…should have, somehow. I should have done something—” His head dropped. “She may live.”

  Her heart ached, and somehow there was not a doubt in her mind. “She does live.”

  A sound of relief burst from his lips and he caught her face in his hands and kissed her. He kissed her long and hard as if to thank her. And when his fingers threaded through her hair and caressed her neck, he kissed her as if to tell her he cherished her.

  His kisses softened and broke, and traveled across her cheek to her ear, until his forehead rested on hers and he just held her. And her own relief strengthened her.

  Wherever Will had been the last few days, he had come back to her.

  With a gentle squeeze, he released her and reached across the carriage to slide the letter into his coat pocket. “Langxian village is over two hundred miles from the mission.”

  She nodded numbly. “That is not so far, is it?”

  He lifted their entwined hands and kissed the back of hers. “To move anyplace in that country requires strength, sometimes violence, and money—to cross the borders, to pay for information.” He shook his head wearily. “George wouldn’t have anything like that.”

  Her fear multiplied, but she would not say anything. He had to go back. For Aimee.

  Just for Aimee…

  She rounded on him. “Will? Without investors, you do not need to collect.”

  “No, but—”

  “How soon could you return? If you go only to find her?” The carriage was slowing—they had arrived home—but she would have Will’s answer first.