The Scandal of Lady Eleanor

by Regina Jeffers

  James stood, picked up his jacket, and walked to the door.

  “Naughty dreams,” she called out without looking at him.

  James snorted with amusement as he reached for the door handle. “You do not play fair, Lady Eleanor.”

  “I have never had such fun playing before, Lord Worthing.” She raised her head from the pillow and pursed her lips in a kiss.

  James groaned—her disheveled appearance making her look adorably sexy. Striding to her, he shoved her back on the bed. “I warned you, Ella, when it comes to you I have no self-control—none whatsoever.”

  “Control is highly overrated,” she teased, stretching out her arms to him.

  “I have created a monster.” His kisses trailed down her neck and across her chest. “A monster, indeed.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “I TOLD YOU I EXPECTED FULL PAYMENT when I arrived in London! Then you forced me to track you to Kent!” Aidan Kimbolt lifted Louis Levering from the floor and slammed him against the nearest wall. “I am not a man who likes to be kept waiting!”

  Levering staggered to his feet, rubbing his chin where Kimbolt’s fist had made contact. “I do not have the money, but I should have it soon.”

  “I am tired of hearing you say soon. Nothing you promise ever comes about, whether it is the money or the ladies.” Kimbolt threw the decanter of port against the wall, watching it soak the tapestry. They were at Huntingborne Abbey, and the place had seen better days. Portraits no longer adorned the walls, tattered and worn rugs “graced” the floors, and candle wax filled in the woodcarvings of the mantelpiece. Evidently, the baronet had sold everything of any value to cover his debts and feed his addictions. “By the way, what has happened to Lady Eleanor? Was she there when you arrived in London?” Kerrington had instructed Kimbolt to find out if Levering suspected Eleanor Fowler’s whereabouts.

  “The bitch still has not shown. I called at Briar House yesterday; Miss Aldridge put me off, saying Lady Eleanor was touring the Lake District with her friend Miss Nelson. The chit has no friend by that name; I know—we made it up, but her cousin was there with a newsy letter, and it was posted from the Lakes. That is why I came to Kent—I thought she might be hiding at Thorn Hall. I have a man there—a guy who owes me—so he will tell me when the Fowlers come and go. He says they have been in London since they left the estate eight weeks ago.” Levering edged away from the wall. “I need to find her soon; she is my money purse.”

  Kimbolt made a mental note to warn Fowler of a traitor on his estate. “Is that your master plan? Marrying Lady Eleanor?”The viscount snarled in disbelief. “That is how you plan to pay me back? Obviously, Fowler’s sister has no desire to marry you, Levering. She can hide out for a long time, and your debts will keep mounting.”

  “I have something she wants; the lady will not stay away.”

  Kimbolt walked around the room to assess the possibility of a hiding place. “You are a pompous ass if you think your charms strong enough to induce Lady Eleanor’s return.”

  “Lady Eleanor is too cold for my taste, but she will return. I guarantee it.” Levering moved to the nearest chair, keeping it between him and Kimbolt.

  “Guarantee? What kind of guarantee?” The viscount fingered a vase on the nearest table, pretending to assess its value. “If you expect an extension, I want to see this guarantee—see where my money is going. Otherwise, you may be looking at debtor’s prison. I do not see anything in this house of value—nothing to pay back the debts I hold on you.”

  “You have only two thousand,” Levering insisted.

  Kimbolt smiled deviously. “That is where you are wrong, Levering. I hold your scrip from several of your biggest creditors. I bought your blunt for pennies on the quid.You owe me close to twelve thousand.”

  Levering staggered backwards in disbelief. “Why would you do that?”

  “I play my hunches, and my instincts tell me you are on to something big. It took balls or pure stupidity to bring a lady of Eleanor Fowler’s stature to that hunting box. I prefer to think it is the former, and you have some sort of plan. I want a cut of what you make in addition to the debts you owe me.”

  “That is blackmail,” Sir Louis protested.

  “Precisely! Something with which I suspect you are very familiar. How else could you control Lady Eleanor? I observed the woman with Viscount Worthing on more than one occasion this Season; she affects him, and it would be a good match for them both. I doubt if either family would object. Then, all at once, you announce that the woman will marry you. So, I ask myself, what does Levering have that would make Lady Eleanor turn from a future earl to you. The only answer I have is blackmail. It must be something good. Tell me I am right, Levering.” The viscount now stood menacingly over Sir Louis.

  Levering tried to smile—a self-deprecating move. “And if what you say is true, what will it cost me?”

  “The balance of your debt and another eight thousand.” The Realm planned to back the baronet into a corner to force him to agree to their proposal.

  “That is twenty thousand. Highway robbery! I will not do it!” Louis stormed away toward the window.

  Kimbolt watched their contrived manipulation masterly fall in place. “Fine. We will do it the hard way—debtor’s prison for you and a twelve thousand pound lien on this property for me. I am sure someone will give me the twenty thousand I want for it. Even in the shape it is in, property is still the safest commodity.”

  “Wait a minute!” Levering put out a hand to stop Kimbolt’s’s departure. “We can deal together.”

  Lexford turned slowly, milking the moment. “I am listening.”

  “Five thousand plus the debts,” Levering countered. “And you help me pull this off. Lady Eleanor liked you; she will respond to you positively.” He mopped his sweaty brow with his handkerchief.

  “Let me see what you have on the lady first—see if it is worth my wait. If it is as good as I believe, I will take an even fifteen thousand and leave you to the rest.”

  Levering’s breathing became easier, and he tried to smile again. “Follow me.” He stepped around the viscount, picking up a candlestick as he went.

  With a satisfying smile, Lord Lexford followed, taking note of the direction so he might share it with Crowden. Finally, they came to a narrow staircase leading to an attic, probably a room to dry clothing, as they were in the steepled part of the house and a room for any other purpose was unlikely. Levering demanded that Lexford wait at the bottom of the stairs. The viscount thought to follow, but heavy dust on the steps told him Levering would see the footprints. So, instead he listened, counted the number of steps, heard the scrape of metal on wood, the sound of something heavy being moved, and steps returning.

  “Ah, here we are.” Levering returned from the hiding place.

  Kimbolt lounged against the wall, trying to look casual. “Was it worth all this dirt?” He brushed at his sleeve.

  “You tell me,” Levering smirked. He handed Kimbolt the diary; for a moment, the viscount wanted to knock out the baronet and make off with the journal, but he had to be patient—to wait—to play out the hand: to make sure there were no copies, make sure no one else knew, and make sure Levering never told another soul. It was the Realm’s way to be thorough, never impulsive.

  “It resembles a lady’s journal.” Lexford turned the book over in his hands. “How can this bring down Thorn Hall?”

  “Take a look at the December 5 entry, and you will understand.” Levering folded his arms over his chest and waited for the expected reaction. “What do you think, Collins?” he snorted with self-confidence.

  The viscount read the suggested entry and then thumbed through the book, examining the other entries. He needed to tell Worthing and Fowler what the book held. Lexford whistled under his breath. On more than one occasion, Fowler had shared the horror stories of his father’s sexual appetite, but here was proof of not only the duke’s unusual tastes, but that of Levering’s parents. Instead of being appalled
by what he read, Levering planned to exploit his own family’s reputation to feed his need for cards and women and drink. Kimbolt did not know who was the more debased—somehow William Fowler moved up the rungs of the ladder. The diary went a long way toward explaining why Levering acted the way he did. The viscount realized the baronet waited for an answer. “I have to hand it to you. It is quite lascivious; is it true?”

  “Who cares?” Levering took the book from Kimbolt’s hands. “What is important is that Thornhill will be willing to pay to keep it quiet.”

  “Is it just the one book?” Kimbolt needed to know, to tell Crowden.

  Levering tucked the volume under his arm and headed down the stairs to the sleeping quarters with Lexford following close on the man’s heels. “There are two books. I keep them both under lock and key; they are my bread and butter.” Reaching the main passageway, he turned to face Kimbolt. “Well, Collins, do we have a deal?”

  The viscount paused, adding the needed suspense. “We have a deal, Levering. I will have my man of business draw up the papers. He will call on you later today.”The Realm planned to send Lowery to act as Lexford’s solicitor. “The debt will come due one week from the day you marry Lady Fowler. I will even help fund your courtship. Roslyn really enjoyed the gowns I gave her. They earned me three straight days in the lady’s bed.”

  “I am happy one of us benefited from Lady Eleanor’s departure. Fanny is still angry.” Kimbolt truly found that fact amusing. Departing the house, he laughed freely at the image of the neutered Sir Louis Levering kneeling at Worthing’s feet and begging for mercy.

  “I will go tomorrow night,” Gabriel Crowden told Fowler. They had sent word to Worthing of Kimbolt’s success, and now planned to execute the next step, Crowden’s removing the diary from Levering’s possession.

  “Why not tonight?”

  Crowden leaned back in the chair, a mischievous smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Too easy.” He propped the heels of his Hessians on the corner of Fowler’s desk. “No one there tonight but the servants. Lexford says Levering plans a little card party tomorrow evening with his friends. I prefer a challenge.”

  “I just want the diary; I do not personally care about the thrill you receive when you invade the place.”

  “You will take possession of the diary,Your Grace; I will warrant it. I just hate that no one will know until much later.”

  Fowler handed Crowden a package. “The Viscount made a guess on the appearance of the second book. The black one is what he believes Lady Levering used for the one he saw in Sir Louis’s possession. We have written creative passages in place of the ones Kimbolt observed. It should be amusing anyway.”

  “I shall place these inside the box Levering used.” The marquis took the package from Fowler’s outstretched hands. “As soon as we have the original diary, are we still off to Derbyshire?”

  “Eleanor and Worthing will marry on Friday. I want to give her the diaries before then.”

  Crowden thumbed through the counterfeit books, needing something to do with his hands. “How do you feel about their marriage?”

  “I am having some difficulty in picturing my baby sister as old enough to be the mistress of her own house, although I know she is more than capable.” Fowler traced his finger around the glass’s rim.

  “I thought you were going to say something about picturing her with child, knowing how she got that way.”

  Fowler frowned, pursing his lips. “I could have gone all day without the image of the Captain in bed with my sister. That is certainly not fair, Godown.”

  The Marquis laughed when his friend blushed. “Worthing is the first of us. Who do you suppose is next?”

  The Duke paused, debating on whether to answer. “I suspected you and my cousin might be considering a joining.”

  Crowden lowered his heels and prepared to stand. “I was thinking, Your Grace, about retiring to Gossling Hill.”

  Fowler swallowed hard. “Alone?”

  “Alone,Your Grace.” Crowden stood and adjusted his clothing. “I thought I might leave from Derbyshire.”

  “You must wait until after Prinny’s party. It would be a shame to miss what happens with Levering.”

  “Then after the Prince Regent’s little soiree. I need the wildness of Staffordshire. London is too constraining.”

  Dressed completely in black, Gabriel “The Ghost” Crowden climbed through an open window on Huntingborne Abbey’s second floor, having traversed a vine-covered trellis. The window, used to cross-ventilate the upper level, opened onto a long hallway, which led to the main staircase. Crowden stood in the shadows and listened for whether anyone had sounded the alarm with his presence. According to Kimbolt, Levering kept a bare-bones staff of only five in the house. Near midnight, Crowden did not expect to find any servants, although it was possible, as Levering and his friends played cards in one of the downstairs drawing rooms.

  Crowden watched the game in progress from a patio window for some time, assuring himself of the condition of each of the house’s occupants. Kimbolt had joined the group to help him if something were to go wrong with the heist. The party shared three women—local village whores who allowed themselves to be touched intimately by each and all. Aidan Kimbolt chose not to partake, although none of the other carders noticed, as the viscount occasionally slipped his arm around one of the women, purely for show. But he did not participate in the profligacy, nor did he drink beyond the occasional sip. Both Crowden and the viscount needed a clear head to stay alert to danger.

  Crowden stayed in the shadows and worked his way along the wall. Kimbolt had drawn very detailed diagrams, which the Marquis had committed to memory. Now, he moved cautiously. It was a quiet night—no wind, and even the crickets were silent. Luckily, the moon made an appearance, providing a shaft of light the length of the hallway. He had earned the nickname of The Ghost after convincing one not-so-magnanimous French comte that he had imagined the dark stranger when the man awoke to find Gabriel Crowden going through the safe in the comte’s bedroom. With his French better than that of many Frenchmen, Crowden assured the man that he had dreamed the theft and then waltzed from the room—a ghost—without anyone else in the household even waking.

  Reaching the described stairway, the Marquis lit a stub of a candle. Being far enough away from the card room, the players would not see the light. No one had cleaned the stairway, and Crowden needed to step into Levering’s footprints. The idea was for the baronet not to realize the exchange of books until it was too late. Crowden found he had to tiptoe at times because Levering wore so small a boot. “A boy’s feet,” he thought sarcastically.

  He eased the room’s door open. Kimbolt had guessed correctly: Someone had designed the room for drying clothes. Rope lines ran between metal hooks on the wall. Although the windows remained closed, they polluted two walls, providing light enough to see the room’s layout.

  Lord Lexford had counted the steps Levering had taken and had noted the sound of metal on wood, but the room was totally empty except for the drying lines. There was not one piece of furniture.

  “All right—no chest or safe,” he told himself. Immediately, he squatted to see if there were dusty tracks he could follow, but nothing showed in the subdued candlelight. “Eight steps,” he silently mouthed.

  Keeping Levering’s height in mind, Crowden adjusted his stride, shortening it. He marked off eight steps toward the room’s center, which proved fruitless—not even a loose floorboard. Dutifully, he returned to the doorway and went off at an angle to his right. Still nothing. He tried the same thing on the left with the same results. Feeling the frustration of retracing his steps over and over again, Crowden nearly missed the obvious. A second turn, at a different angle, offered no possibilities, but the same angle on the left revealed a shadow in the wall, which the marquis cursed himself for not seeing immediately. He began at the room’s closed door again and went toward the darkened aberration. Eight steps exactly.

  Rai
sing the candle, he examined the area. A three-foot square cut into the wooden panels displayed a hinged door—the metal on wood that Kimbolt had heard. Crowden used a knife to get a finger hold and began to edge the hinged door open. After the first squeak, he lifted the door enough to ease the weight of it and managed to swing it wide open without any other sound.

  A gaping black hole appeared before Crowden raised the candle to look inside. Of all the absurd places! Inside the opening stood the house’s locked dumbwaiter, a knotted rope keeping it from moving. Crowden peered in, and lying on the flat plane of the small bucket was a book.

  “Bloody hell!” he cursed silently, as he realized that only one book lay in the compartment. Quickly, he opened the package he carried under his shirt and placed the replica they had created as a replacement for the original. The dummy in the dumbwaiter, he kept repeating in his head as he closed the hinged opening. He would share the irony of the phrase with Kerrington and Fowler.

  Now, he had to find the other book. Hurrying back the way he had come, Gabriel retraced the baronet’s steps once more.The man’s bedchamber seemed the most likely place, so he rushed toward the family quarters. He peered into several empty rooms before finding one strewn with remnants of leftover food and rumpled clothing. Evidently, Levering’s small staff let the work lapse around the house.

  “Pig.” Crowden commented as he closed the door behind him. The chamber pot’s stench filled the room with a strong urine odor. Unable to tolerate the smell, Crowden cracked one of the windows. “The arse will thank me later,” he mumbled.

  Lighting a single candle, he did a complete search of the room. He found dirty clothes and bed linens, but nothing even resembling a book. He searched the dresser, the mattresses, the wardrobe, and even managed to open a locked safe box. “Now where?” He began to reason. He could not search the whole house in one night. He had to think like a madman. “His study,” Crowden decided.