One Night Of Scandal

by Nicola Cornick

  ‘Richard will suffice,’ Richard said, his smile deepening. His hand covered hers in a brief, reassuring grasp. ‘Be easy, Deborah. I am only teasing you. I doubt you could deceive me, for you are one of the most transparently honest people that I have ever met.’

  ‘I am forever cursing my inability to hide my feelings,’ Deb said, a little shakily.

  Richard smiled and for a second his hand tightened over hers before he removed it. ‘Do not,’ he said softly.

  Their eyes met and held. ‘Oh, dear,’ Deb said helplessly, feeling all the attraction that she had worked so hard to repress rushing back, ‘this is very unfortunate.’ She frowned, trying to wrench her thoughts away from Richard Kestrel and back to the matter in hand. It was extremely difficult to concentrate.

  ‘The spy,’ she said. ‘The person that you are hunting…If the message was in the book, the spy must belong to Lady Sally’s reading group.’

  Richard nodded. ‘We think that she does.’

  Deb shot him a troubled look. ‘But it cannot be so. It is not possible.’

  ‘What is impossible? That there should be a female spy or that she should be a member of your reading group?’

  ‘Either. Both!’ Deb made a wild gesture. ‘There is only Olivia and me, and Lady Sally and Miss Lang and Lady Benedict!’ Her voice sank to a whisper. ‘It must be one of us, yet it cannot be…’

  Richard’s steady gaze did not waver from her face. ‘It must be one of you,’ he repeated implacably.

  ‘Not Liv!’ Deb said. Her gaze was pleading. ‘I could never believe her a traitor!’

  Richard shook his head. ‘No. I doubt that Lady Marney is the one.’

  ‘Then it must be one of the others.’ Deb frowned. ‘Miss Lang is silly and vulgar and I do not like Lady Benedict, but that does not make her a spy…’ She gave a gusty sigh. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  Richard’s face was still. ‘There is no mistake, Deborah.’ He shifted on the seat. ‘Nor is this to be taken lightly. This person has killed more than once and may well kill again. She is passing secrets to the French that endanger the lives of thousands of innocent people. She has to be stopped.’

  There was a silence. Deb’s gaze fell on the book and she picked it up. It bore absolutely no distinguishing marks and, thinking back to the meeting of the reading group, she could not think of any way of telling the books apart. She picked it up and opened the pages at random. It smelled of a very faint scent; not perfume or flowers or polish, but something else. Deb sniffed at the spine. She could not place the smell, but she knew that she would recognise it if she smelled it again.

  ‘How providential for you that I accidentally left my book behind,’ she said, ‘or you might never have seen the letter-’ She broke off as she caught the edge of Richard’s rueful grin. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

  Richard’s grin broadened. ‘That was no accident,’ he said.

  Deb stared at him, the hand clasping the book sinking into her lap. ‘What do you mean it was no accident? I left Midwinter Marney in a hurry and forgot that the book was on the table!’

  Richard stood up and stretched. ‘You may think that is what happened, but the truth is rather different.’ He slanted a smile down at her. ‘I saw the coded letter when I brought you your cup of tea, Deborah. You were looking very absorbed and very furtive, and I knew I had somehow to persuade you to forget the book and give me the chance to have a look at the code.’

  Deb stared in amazement. ‘Oh! You mean that you…When you were talking to me…’

  ‘I deliberately diverted your attention,’ Richard confirmed. ‘I needed to distract you.’

  ‘You mean that all that outrageous flirtation was designed to make me forget my book?’ Deb’s tone was stormy and her feelings were not soothed when Richard nodded, still smiling.

  ‘It worked, did it not? You stalked out like an outraged duchess and I picked up the book and followed you.’

  Deb clenched her hands. ‘Oh, you…you hateful wretch!’

  ‘I know,’ Richard said resignedly. ‘I am a cad and a deceiver.’

  ‘You are without a doubt the most odious man I have ever met!’ Deb said wrathfully. She jumped to her feet. ‘We have all seen you and your brothers, mingling with us all and flirting and inveigling yourselves into our good graces. Now I discover it was all a means to an end…’

  Richard’s gaze was dark and amused. ‘I cannot deny that we set out to charm the ladies of Midwinter,’ he said smoothly, ‘but-’

  ‘Oh, do not seek to make excuses,’ Deb said, cutting him off sharply. She felt cheap and betrayed. ‘How can there be any justification for the way you behaved?’

  Richard had also got to his feet and, although he was not touching her, his gaze held her as still as though he was forcibly restraining her.

  ‘I was about to say that my behaviour towards you was always sincere, Mrs Stratton,’ he said. ‘With you, I feigned nothing.’

  Deb fought her emotions and the insidious instinct that told her he was telling the truth.

  ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’ she retorted. She let her breath out on a huge sigh. ‘I would be a fool twice over if I believed you!’ she added bitterly.

  Richard said nothing, but his dark gaze challenged hers and Deb was the first to look away.

  ‘I do not know if I can trust a word you say,’ she complained, in a more moderate tone.

  ‘No,’ Richard agreed levelly. ‘I can understand that.’

  He came to her and took her hand in his. When she tried to free herself he pulled her around to face him. Deb’s breathing constricted.

  ‘My lord-’

  ‘I will let you go in a moment,’ Richard’s face was suddenly grim again, ‘but this is important. You know far more than is safe for you now, Deborah. I must beg you to keep quiet about this. Tell no one. No confiding in your sister…’

  The touch of his hand conveyed urgency and something more personal that tugged at Deb’s heart. She sighed. ‘I suppose I cannot speak to anyone.’

  ‘Please,’ Richard said, and Deb heard the insistent note in his voice. ‘Be careful, Deborah. With good fortune we may trap this person soon, but in the mean time I must ask you to be on your guard.’

  Deb nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘I am not sure that you do,’ Richard said, an edge to his voice now. ‘Whoever has lost this book will know that one of the other members of the group must have it. You are all in danger now and I do not want anything to happen to you.’

  Their gazes locked and all manner of unspoken feeling passed between them. There was a moment of absolute stillness and then Richard pulled Deb close and lowered his head to hers.

  A quiver went through Deb. The kiss was soft and deliberate, but almost before it had started Richard was drawing back and leaving her with an ache of disappointment. She opened her eyes reluctantly and knew that he must be able to see the longing clear in her face and know what she wanted. His expression changed as he looked down at her. Deb had time only to draw a quick breath before he pulled her back into his arms and his mouth settled hard on hers this time. His tongue coaxed her lips apart and slid deep.

  This time the kiss was long and sweet and lingering. It left Deb trembling all the way down to her toes. She clung to Richard and responded to him with untutored passion and he held her and kissed her back with a will and finally, when they were both panting and breathless, he pressed his lips to her hair and stilled her shaking body against his.

  ‘Deborah…’ His voice was rough, but it held an undertone of laughter. ‘I cannot quite believe how we have come to this, but we are in your shrubbery and up in the house you have a very proper lady’s companion-’

  ‘Mmm…’ Deb rubbed a cheek against the smooth material of his jacket. She was glad of the strength of his arms about her for she felt distinctly light-headed.

  ‘And you are late for your appointment to drive with Mr Lang-’ Richard continued.

  Reality re
turned. Deb’s eyes flew open. ‘Mr Lang! I forgot all about him.’

  ‘Good,’ Richard said, and Deb could hear the raw masculine satisfaction in his voice. She eased away from him and looked into his face a little uncertainly, suddenly recalled to where she was and what she had been doing. How was it possible to forget herself so completely in Lord Richard Kestrel’s arms? His touch filled her with the most exquisite longing to take and hold and be possessed by a passion so fierce that she had never dreamed it could exist. She felt torn. Long-repressed desire-feelings that she had forbidden herself for so long-were threatening to triumph over rational thought and sweep her away. Another tremor shook her and she took a step back, pressing both hands to her cheeks in embarrassment.

  ‘You make me forget propriety,’ she said. ‘I must go in…’

  ‘Of course,’ Richard said gravely. He took her hand away from her face and pressed a kiss on the back. ‘Deborah,’ he said. ‘I shall call on you soon…’ He sketched a bow and released her hand reluctantly, and when he reached the bend where the path was lost from sight, he turned and looked back at her and Deb’s heart leapt to see the expression on his face. And then he was gone.

  When Richard reached Kestrel Court there was an unexpected level of activity about the place. Servants were unloading baggage from a coach that was drawn up on the gravel sweep before the house, and from the direction of the stables Richard could hear upraised voices and the sound of laughter. He quickened his step and rounded the corner into the yard. His elder brother Justin, Duke of Kestrel, was standing there chatting to the grooms and holding the reins of a prime piece of horseflesh, a raking chestnut hunter that was showing its teeth and looked as though it possessed a thoroughly bad temper. Richard walked round the beast and gave a low whistle.

  ‘What do you think?’ Justin asked, grinning.

  ‘What you gain in speed and stamina you lose in temperament,’ Richard said.

  Justin looked resigned. ‘That’s exactly what Hobbs said.’ He gestured to the head groom. ‘Told me I’d bought a pig in a poke.’

  ‘I assume you rode him from London?’

  Justin nodded, handed the chestnut’s reins over to the groom and fell into step with his brother. ‘Bought him at Tattersalls on Thursday and rode up to Chelmsford yesterday and on up here today.’

  ‘How did he handle?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Like he wanted to break my neck,’ Justin said ruefully.

  They went across the gravel, where the coach was still disgorging huge amounts of luggage, and in at the front door.

  ‘You travel with more of an entourage than Mama,’ Richard said. He stopped dead and looked at his brother. ‘Oh lord, don’t tell me this is Mama’s baggage?’

  ‘Just the advance guard,’ Justin said. ‘Mama plans to spend the winter here and wishes to do so in comfort.’

  Richard groaned. ‘But it is barely October! Are we to see cartloads of luggage arriving by the week?’

  ‘I imagine so,’ Justin said.

  Richard groaned again. ‘Whatever has prompted her to come to Midwinter? I thought she detested the place as a little provincial backwater.’

  ‘She heard that Cory Newlyn had found himself a bride here,’ Justin said with an expressive lift of the brows, ‘so now she thinks to find one for each of us.’

  Richard shot him a look and pushed open the door of the study. ‘You had better be careful then, Justin.’

  Justin closed the door behind them and threw himself down in one of the fauteuils.

  ‘Not me, old fellow!’ he said. ‘Thought you might appreciate the help, though. You seem to be making a bit of a ham fist of it yourself. How is the divine Mrs Stratton, by the way?’

  ‘Divine,’ Richard said, trying and failing to repress a smile. ‘I was with her just now.’

  Justin laughed. ‘And you are totally épris again?’

  ‘Not again,’ Richard corrected. ‘I never stopped.’

  Justin grinned unsympathetically. ‘How very frustrating for you.’ He gave his brother a sly look. ‘So Mrs Stratton is still the epitome of virtue?’

  ‘Mind your own damned business,’ Richard said. He was astonished how protective he felt towards Deborah.

  Justin’s grin deepened. ‘It must be serious if you are refusing to talk about it.’ He flicked the three-day-old copy of the Suffolk Chronicle that was resting on the table. ‘Plus you are reading the local papers,’ he observed. ‘Next thing you’ll be telling me you have taken up tea drinking.’

  ‘Splendid idea,’ Richard said, reaching for the bell. ‘You’ll take some?’

  Justin looked scandalised. ‘No, thank you. What happened to my fine French brandy? Have you drunk it all?’

  Richard nodded towards the decanter. ‘Help yourself.’ He put a hand in his jacket pocket. ‘Take a look at this, Justin.’

  He tossed the sheet of code down on the table between them. Justin glanced at it casually, looked again and drew his breath in with a soundless whistle. He looked at Richard, his dark eyes alight.

  ‘At last! Where did you find it?’

  Richard laughed. ‘In Mrs Stratton’s copy of the seventeenth-century poets.’

  Justin frowned, opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. ‘Explain,’ he said economically.

  Half an hour and two glasses of brandy later, they had talked the matter through.

  ‘So the spy is using a pictorial code,’ Justin said thoughtfully, ‘where the symbols represent groups of words rather than letters, you think?’

  Richard nodded. ‘I think it would be good to ask Cory to take a look at this. He has done a lot of work with Thomas Young on hieroglyphs. He may have some useful ideas about breaking pictorial codes.’

  Justin nodded. ‘We should send it directly.’ He swung the brandy glass gently between his fingers. ‘As for the members of Lady Sally’s reading group…I cannot believe it, but we are no further forward in finding the spy.’

  ‘No, but our field of suspects has narrowed,’ Richard said.

  ‘Only if one discounts Mrs Stratton.’ Justin hesitated, then took a deep breath. ‘She could be playing you for a fool, Richard. You are scarcely impartial in this.’

  There was a moment of tension and then the lines of Richard’s body relaxed. ‘She could. But she is not.’

  Justin did not say anything; he merely looked a question.

  After a moment Richard said slowly, ‘Mrs Stratton is transparent as water, Justin. She finds it impossible to dissemble. She would have to be a damnably good actress to carry this deception through. I am certain that neither Mrs Stratton nor Lady Marney is the one we seek.’

  Justin nodded slowly. ‘Miss Lang?’

  ‘The least likely option of the three remaining. I cannot believe she has the coolness or the intellect to carry it off.’

  ‘So it is Lady Sally Saltire or Lady Benedict.’ Justin looked thoughtful. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Watch them.’

  Justin gave him a crooked grin. ‘I infer that you have been watching Mrs Stratton a little too much, Richard?’

  ‘A great deal too much.’ Richard laughed. ‘So I leave Lady Sally and Lady Benedict to you.’

  Justin sighed heavily. ‘Leaving you free to pursue your interest in Mrs Stratton, I suppose.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Richard went over to the desk, drew the inkpot towards him and started to pen a quick note to Cory Newlyn. Justin got up and sauntered over to the door. ‘Mama always hoped that Papa’s example of faithlessness would lead her sons in the opposite direction and breed uxorious men,’ he said. ‘She will be glad that one of us at least will not disappoint.’

  Richard laughed. ‘Fate has a manner of thwarting our plans, Justin,’ he said. ‘Unless I can find a way to convince Mrs Stratton of my good intentions, she will never trust me enough to marry me. As for you and Lucas…’ He shook his head. ‘Parson’s mousetrap will catch you in the end.’

  Justin took a guinea from his pocket and toss
ed it idly in his hand. ‘Care to wager on that, Richard?’

  ‘No,’ Richard said, bending his head over the letter once again. ‘I never wager on a certainty.’

  Chapter Nine

  O livia Marney was lying in her bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The design of her bedroom had been a particular triumph for Olivia, who had taken the floral theme she loved so much and transformed her house into an extension of her garden. The domed starfish ceiling was patterned with trelliswork in delicate green and floral sprays of pale rose, and there were flower stands and brackets attached to the wall, from which cascaded a riot of ivies and miniature, scented limes. There were mirrors inset in the walls and the morning light was soft and ethereal. It was by that pale light that Olivia had noticed the finest of cracks in the bedroom ceiling, cracks which probably no one else would ever see but which quite spoiled her enjoyment of her pastoral surroundings. She would have to do something about the plaster. Perhaps it was the exceptionally dry summer that had made it fracture into a spider’s web of fine lines. She would need to send to London for a plasterer of sufficient skill to make the repairs. The last time she had tried to use a local craftsman, the fool had completely filled in an alcove that she had intended for a cinerary urn…

  She became aware somewhat belatedly that something had changed. It took her several seconds to work out what had happened and then she realised that Ross was not moving any longer. In fact, he was propped on one elbow above her, his cynical blue gaze scanning her face.

  ‘Would you care for me to hand you a magazine?’ he said. ‘That might help you to pass the time.’

  He did not wait for any reply, but swung himself off the bed and reached for his dressing-robe. Olivia averted her gaze from his hard, well-muscled body. She could not remember a time when she had permitted herself to look openly on Ross’s nakedness.

  ‘Naked men look so untidy,’ she remembered her mother, Lady Walton, saying to her on her wedding night. ‘It is best to lie back, close one’s eyes and think about something pleasant. The menus for the week, perhaps, or what one might wear for church on Sunday. You will find that your husband will soon finish and you will have the added benefit of having planned the food for an entire seven days.’