Scandal of the Year

by Olivia Drake

  She set down her glass with a sharp click. “You oughtn’t say things like that.”

  “Quite the contrary. I must learn to become the charming prince. Who else would you have me practice on but you?”

  “Practice would be superfluous. Behaving as a rogue comes naturally to you.”

  He had the audacity to chuckle. To laugh when she’d meant it as an insult.

  Irked beyond belief, Blythe stalked past him. But he moved faster, blocking her path and taking hold of the doorknob. She hoped for one eager instant that he intended to stop her from departing, that he would clasp her to his hard, male body and have his wicked way with her.

  But he merely said, “You mustn’t be seen leaving this room. Allow me to check the corridor.” He opened the door and peered out. “The path is clear.”

  All of Blythe’s senses sprang to vibrant life as the firm pressure of James’s hand settled at the small of her back. His breath tickling the back of her neck, he leaned closer and added, “I’ll wait here until you’re gone.”

  As he stepped aside to allow her space to exit, she afforded him a cool nod and headed down the long corridor. Yet her mind dwelled upon the phantom weight of his fingers at the back of her waist.

  That had not been a casual move. His touch had been deliberate. And it had borne the stamp of possessiveness.

  * * *

  Loitering in the doorway, James watched Blythe walk off in a high dudgeon. His gaze obsessively tracked the sway of her hips beneath the gauzy bronze fabric of her gown. He needed to return to the drawing room himself, to rejoin the other footmen and pass out his tray of drinks before his absence earned him a reprimand by Godwin.

  But not quite yet. James needed a moment to cool down first. It wouldn’t do for anyone to glance down at his tight-fitting trousers and notice his state of arousal. Of course, that had been his near-perpetual condition ever since he’d made the colossal blunder of kissing Blythe in the privacy of her father’s office.

  How dare you touch me. You’ve no right to do so.

  She had been correct to denounce him on that night, but wrong to issue an immediate apology for that censure. Blythe had erroneously shouldered the blame because she perceived herself as ranking higher than him. Little did she realize that James alone bore the burden of responsibility for the way he was tricking her and her family.

  Even now, unresolved guilt smoldered in his gut. The feeling had dogged him after her departure that night. It had distracted him as he’d searched Crompton’s office and come up with nothing.

  Not a single shred of proof to bolster his case against Blythe’s parents.

  He stared moodily after her. She had reached the large vestibule outside the drawing room. A tall, slim woman in a plum-colored gown stepped into sight from the direction of the grand staircase. Even from a distance, he recognized her as the middle Crompton sister.

  Lindsey glanced down the passageway, seeming to stare straight at him.

  James ducked back into the antechamber. Devil take it, he was annoyed with Blythe for telling her sisters about that damned deception. The last thing he needed was for one of them to guess that he was the footman who would pose as Prince Nicolai. That would only serve to call undue attention to himself.

  And it could wreak havoc with his secret investigation.

  Picking up a bottle, he poured two fresh glasses of champagne to replace the ones they’d drunk. Blythe had a knack for complicating his life. Her blend of naïve girl and sultry woman held an irresistible appeal. James derived entirely too much enjoyment from teasing her, from watching the fire of indignation flare in those big, expressive eyes.

  She posed a danger to his plan of exposing her parents. He needed to keep her at arm’s length. Sentiment would only stand in the way of exacting justice and claiming his inheritance.

  So why had he succumbed to impulse and touched her? He’d succeeded only in marking his own mind with the memory of her lush curves and the enticing floral scent of her perfume.

  It had been jealousy, he admitted to himself. Knowing that she was returning to the duke, James had wanted to remind her of how passionately she’d responded to him that night in her father’s study. Let her remember his seduction while she batted her lashes at Savoy.

  Perhaps you could save us both a lot of trouble by making a wager with the duke in which he might win your hand in marriage.

  Thank God she hadn’t guessed the true source of his vitriol. James despised gambling. His father had been a dissolute who had squandered a fortune at cards and dice, and his death in a drunken duel had left sixteen-year-old James awash in debt. All that remained had been the run-down plantation in Barbados. Years of hard work had enabled James to turn the place into a thriving estate—at least until the tempest had swept it all away.

  That was why he needed to stay focused on his goal of regaining his inheritance. Miss Blythe Crompton could never be anything to him but a distraction. For when the truth came out, and he exposed her parents as thieves, she would hate him with every bone in her gorgeous body.

  * * *

  “He’s the one, isn’t he,” Lindsey whispered. It was a statement, rather than a question.

  Alarmed, Blythe followed her sister’s gaze down the corridor and feigned confusion. “Who?”

  “That footman, the tall one with the chiseled features. I must commend you. As Prince Nicolai, he’ll be more than handsome enough to turn Lady Davina’s head.”

  “Shh.” Blythe grabbed hold of her sister’s arm and marched her into the darkened ballroom. Glancing anxiously out into the vestibule, she said, “For pity’s sake, Linds, your voice might carry.”

  “Nonsense. I was speaking in an undertone and besides, everyone is talking so loudly they can’t possibly overhear us.”

  The buzz of laughter and conversation drifted from the drawing room. Her sister had always been a champion eavesdropper and she would know how far sound carried. Nevertheless, Blythe didn’t want to take any chances. No one must guess at her secret scheme.

  It was bad enough that Portia and Lindsey had found out about it.

  “Now is neither the time nor the place,” Blythe murmured. “If you wish to speak of this matter, we’ll do it on the morrow.”

  She started to walk out, but Lindsey’s voice pulled her back. “He’ll fit into my husband’s clothing, you know. I’d venture to say they wear exactly the same size. Thane will be gone to Bow Street tomorrow morning. You should come over then and choose a few articles for the prince’s disguise.”

  Blythe realized it was a peace offering after the row she’d had with her sisters over the duke. What a boon it would be to have the garments. She’d been mulling over the problem of how to procure the proper costume from a tailor’s shop without drawing attention.

  But she hesitated to accept. That would be tantamount to admitting that Lindsey had correctly identified James. How could Blythe break her promise to him?

  “Thank you, but I’ll handle the matter myself. Now, I must fetch a few coins and return to my foursome.”

  Her sister caught Blythe’s hand and gave it a soothing rub. “I’m only trying to help. Your secret is safe with me, I promise you.”

  “Is it?” Blythe turned squarely to face Lindsey, studying her through the shadows. “To be frank, I’m afraid you’re going to try to talk him out of participating in the ruse. After all, you don’t approve of me marrying the duke.”

  Lindsey gave her a quick hug. “It’s just that I don’t believe you’ve put enough thought into what the future will be like as Savoy’s wife. Right now, you’re dazzled by his title. But there’s so much more to choosing a husband. I wouldn’t want my sweet sister to miss out on the greatest joy in marriage … true love.”

  The soft smile on Lindsey’s face revealed that her thoughts dwelled on her husband, Thane. Blythe had been surprised when the two of them had become betrothed the previous year. Lindsey had always been so strong and opinionated, so scornful of Blythe’s roman
tic nature.

  Now, the tables had been turned and Blythe had become the pragmatic one. Leaving her childish dreams behind had been part of growing up. Her father wanted this marriage for her, and she was determined to make him happy. An alliance with the Duke of Savoy would lend great honor to her parents.

  Nevertheless, a wistful envy settled over her. If only she could have the closeness she saw in both her sisters’ marriages. She did want the excitement of passion and the experience of being wife to the one man who meant more to her than anyone else in the world. A man who could warm her heart with a brash smile and a witty remark.…

  The image of James appeared in her mind, but she thrust it away. Although she desired him, he could have no part of her future. Such a union was utterly impossible. It would mean giving up her standing in society and inflicting terrible pain on her parents as well.

  Besides, James had never indicated he wanted anything other than a tryst. He might have absolutely no interest in burdening himself with a wife, especially since Blythe would be cut off without a penny if ever she was foolish enough to dally with a servant.

  Realizing that her sister stood gazing at her with some concern, Blythe pulled her mind back to the conversation. “If you don’t approve of the duke, then why would you offer to help me?”

  Lindsey pursed her lips. “If marrying Savoy is truly your dream, I’ll support you, of course. And so will Portia. However…”

  “Yes?”

  “However, I do hope that as you come to know the duke a little better, you’ll see how very unsuited the two of you are. And then you’ll change your mind.”

  Blythe had no intention of altering course. There was no turning back now. She must forge ahead with her plan to have Prince Nicolai lure Lady Davina away from the duke’s side. And Blythe suddenly thought of something that would make the charade so much easier.

  She slipped her arm through her sister’s and they began to stroll out of the ballroom and back into the candlelit vestibule. “Will you do something for me, then?”

  “What is it?”

  “First, promise me you’ll refuse if it’s too much trouble. I realize it’s a lot to ask since you have a newborn infant.”

  “I do employ nursemaids, you know. I’ll help so long as your request doesn’t require me to be away from Ella for more than a few hours.”

  “Oh, it won’t! Will you host a small party at your house in a few days’ time and invite Savoy and his daughter?”

  Lindsey glanced around the deserted vestibule, then said in a lowered tone, “Do you mean for this to be the first meeting between Lady Davina and your counterfeit prince?”

  Blythe nodded. “It would be ever so much simpler than arranging something elsewhere.”

  A gleam of interest entered Lindsey’s blue eyes. “Well! That would certainly prove a novel evening. I’d be delighted to participate!”

  Blythe wasn’t sure she liked that zealous look. Lindsey had a knack for subterfuge and she was sure to insist upon meeting James. Blythe would have to be very, very careful.

  By the heavens, if her sisters were concerned about her setting her cap for the Duke of Savoy, they would be even more horrified to learn of her illicit attraction to a footman.

  Chapter 18

  Within a few days, the scheme had been arranged and invitations to the party sent out.

  James had found out about the revised plan when Blythe instructed him to write another letter to Lady Davina, this one announcing the prince’s imminent arrival in London and begging a rendezvous with her in the garden at Pallister House on the night of the party. Prince Nicolai asserted that he wished to have the long-awaited meeting with the beautiful lady in a private place away from any crush of onlookers.

  What blather, James thought as he strode through the teeming streets of Covent Garden. To think anyone would be brainless enough to believe such a trumped-up scheme. He only wondered how Blythe had managed to talk her sisters into assisting with it.

  The mid-morning sun shone down on the soot-stained buildings, the dim alleyways, and the open stalls of the market where tradesmen hawked their wares. Having delivered the letter to the duke’s townhouse on Albemarle Street a few minutes prior, James had left Mayfair on an additional errand of his own making. He didn’t have much time since Godwin always kept a sharp eye on the footmen under his charge.

  But James had been waiting for an opportunity like this. He was impatient to see if Percy Thornton had returned from Lancashire. More than a week had passed since their last meeting, which was ample time for the retired estate agent to have completed the journey.

  “Fer yer lady,” wheedled a flower seller, thrusting out a grimy hand holding a bunch of violets.

  For one mad moment, James pictured himself presenting the flowers to Blythe, watching her face light up with pleasure, enjoying the kiss of gratitude she bestowed upon him.…

  Then he shook his head at the woman and strode onward toward the cramped streets near the Strand. How idiotic. He wasn’t courting Blythe. And why would he think she’d want a cheap posy from him, anyway, when extravagant bouquets from her suitors arrived like clockwork every morning?

  These untimely fantasies had to cease. With each passing day, she seemed to have a stronger hold on him, mind and body.

  The worst of it was, he genuinely liked her. She was warm and friendly, with expressive features that revealed her feelings. After that hot kiss they’d shared, he certainly wouldn’t call her snobbish, either. Nor could he condemn her as a social climber. Although Blythe was pursuing a title, that was only to be expected of a girl in her position. She’d been raised to believe that making the best possible marriage was her sole purpose in life.

  Nevertheless, he disliked seeing her wed a stuffy, middle-aged widower like Savoy. She ought to choose a husband closer to herself in age. A man who had the virility to arouse and satisfy her passions.

  James realized he was clenching his jaw. He forced himself to relax. It served no purpose for him to dwell on his desire to bed her. Blythe might be naïve enough to flirt with a footman, but that was the extent of it. She was off limits to him. Even though he himself was a gentleman, she’d never forgive him once he exposed the crime of her parents.

  For that reason, the sooner he left Crompton House for good, the better. He had searched the place top to bottom, and the only item of interest he’d found was that cryptic letter from Mrs. Hannah Bleasdale.

  Perhaps today he would find out what it meant.

  Striding down a narrow lane, he located the brick row house where Thornton lived. The place looked even more forlorn in the daylight than it had in the middle of the night. Up and down the street, laundry strung from the upper floors flapped in the dank breeze from the river. A slattern leaned out her window and called out an invitation to him.

  James ignored her and rapped on the wooden panel. The door opened at once. Roland peered out cautiously; then his teeth flashed in a huge smile. The dark-skinned man stepped back to let James enter the tiny foyer with its peeling wallpaper and the brass birdcage sitting in front of the single window.

  “Mister James! What a surprise dis be!”

  “Hello, Roland.” James clapped the valet on the shoulder. “You’re looking well. I trust you’ve been taking excellent care of the house here.”

  “Nothin’ else to do, suh.” Roland looked him up and down. “Now, dat be a sight to see, you in dat fancy wig. Better not open dis cage, or Amora be makin’ a nest in dere.”

  The yellow finch in the cage chirped as if in agreement.

  “I’m looking forward to the day when I can toss this thing into a rubbish bin.” James pulled off the hateful wig and hung it from a straight-backed chair. Combing his fingers through his hair, he asked, “Has Thornton returned from Lancashire?”

  “’Deed so, after midnight. I be takin’ his tea up to him right now.” Roland picked up the tray from a nearby piecrust table. “I’ll tell him you come here.”

  “Pray
don’t trouble yourself,” called a voice from upstairs. “I’m on my way down.”

  The elderly man appeared on the landing. Garbed in a brown coat and breeches, his fringe of gray hair still mussed from sleep, Thornton gripped the banister and hobbled down the staircase.

  Upon reaching the foyer, he made a creaky bow to James. “Pardon me, sir, I’m still a bit stiff from the long ride in the mail coach. But I must say, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I was just now wondering how I’d send word to you.”

  “Then I’m glad to have called,” James said. “However, there isn’t much time for me to spare. Dare I hope you met with some success on your journey?”

  “I’m happy to report so, yes,” Thornton said, rubbing his age-spotted hands. “Do follow me and I’ll show you.”

  The retired estate agent beckoned James into a cramped parlor off the passageway. Bookshelves lined the walls and a pair of threadbare wing chairs sat in front of the cold hearth. Roland brought in the tea tray and vanished, presumably to fetch another cup.

  Thornton shuffled over to a corner, where a long, round leather map case stood propped against a pile of books. He bent down, untied the strings, and began to unroll it.

  Over his shoulder, he said, “I spent a full morning looking in every room of the manor house, but found nothing. I’m afraid the place is in a state of neglect. The housekeeper is a dull-witted sort who would have been shown the door in my day. But at least she left me alone to conduct my search.”

  Seeing the man struggling with the cumbersome bundle, James made haste to assist him. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Indeed, sir. You were correct to advise me to look up in the attic. The place was chock full of furniture and trunks and such. It took some doing, but I finally located this hidden behind some old boxes.”

  The leather bindings fell away to reveal a large canvas.

  “I removed the painting from the frame so it would be easier to transport,” Thornton added. “I do hope that was agreeable.”