Wedded in Scandal bf-1

by Jade Lee

  Robert could not clearly see the dressmaker’s face. Mr. Bono was standing directly in front of her, his expression hidden. Robert didn’t need to see it, though, to know exactly what was happening. The man was giving her a hard look, silently threatening her unless she complied. He almost smiled. Given the way she had spoken to Robert throughout their acquaintance, he looked forward to the set-down she was about to give the man. But it never came.

  “O-of course, my lord,” she stammered, her voice audible but not invested with the power he usually heard from her. “Mr. Bono and I are old friends. And friends are allowed certain liberties. In fact,” she said, turning a winning smile up to Mr. Bono, “I find him most masterful. The way he manages all his domain. It quite turns my head.”

  Robert stared at the woman. He could not be more shocked if she had turned green and sprouted horns. Was it possible? Could he have misread the situation so drastically? She couldn’t possibly want this man’s attention, and yet her expression was almost…dreamy as she looked at Mr. Bono.

  Meanwhile, the man turned back to Robert, his face all smiles. “Mrs. Mort knows that after a bit o’ fun, I will give ’er—and you—the best I gots. In fact,” he said as he gestured to one of the lamp bearers, “there’s a few bolts I separated out jes’ for her. And while we’re waiting, ’haps my sweet Miriam can be getting you a drink, what? Put some fire in yer belly, it can.”

  Miriam was the tart dressed in red, and she immediately stepped forward from the shadows, a bottle of brandy in one hand and scotch in the other.

  “Definitely fine stuff,” she cooed. “An’ there’s more in the back.”

  Robert barely even looked at her. He was busy searching Mrs. Mortimer’s face for a clue. In truth, he was rather disappointed in her. She seemed of a higher sort than to accept advances from the likes of Bono. But whatever the reason, the man obviously had her under his thumb. He knew it the moment she flashed him a wan smile and turned to Gwen.

  “Lady Gwen, it is up to you. If you prefer, I can…um…return later and make the selections.”

  “Absolutely not!” snapped Robert. The last thing he wanted was for Mrs. Mortimer to return here alone. If they were to buy fabrics from this cretin, then they would do it now.

  “Aw, don’t be fretting, dove!” said Mr. Bono to Gwen. “And ’ere’s the silk, jes’ for you.”

  A cascade of palest yellow silk spilled out before them. Beside them Gwen gasped. Even Mrs. Mortimer couldn’t seem to resist reaching out to stroke the beautiful material. But Robert was done with this fiasco. He had no understanding of what exactly was between Mrs. Mortimer and the repulsive Mr. Bono, and at the moment he didn’t truly care. He just wanted done with this business.

  “Gwen,” he snapped, “it is time to depart. We will not be purchasing any of Mr. Bono’s wares.”

  “But Robert!” his sister cried.

  Mrs. Mortimer, too, seemed abruptly very alarmed. “Please, my lord, I know this is not what you are used to, but if you will recall I did try to tell you that the situation here was unusual.”

  “Mrs. Mort and I have a special relationship,” began Mr. Bono, but Robert never gave him the chance to continue.

  “There will be no business done here today,” Robert snapped. “Gwen, he is not an honest businessman, and I’ll have no truck with him.”

  “’Ey, now! There’s no need t’ be insulting! I’m an honest man.”

  And to his shock, even Mrs. Mortimer objected, her voice high with alarm. “Pray don’t say that, Lord Redhill! Mr. Bono is the most excellent of gentlemen!” She turned to the man, panic clear in her expression. “The yellow silk, Mr. Bono. Please. Right away.”

  “No! There will be no purchase at all today,” Robert said as he held out his hand to Gwen. Her mouth was set in a mulish line, but he glared her into submission. In the end, the girl huffed.

  “You are the worst sort of brother, you know that?” she spat. “Generous one moment, then high-handed and obnoxious the next.”

  Robert didn’t bother to respond. Gwen knew when he would brook no interference. She took his hand and they began the business of leaving. Mrs. Mortimer, however, stood back, her panicked eyes going between Lord Redhill and Mr. Bono.

  “Yes, there will be,” she snapped. “The yellow silk!” Then she swallowed. “I shall have to purchase it on credit, you know. But I shall pay you back as soon as—”

  Mr. Bono’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you will, Mrs. Mort. Ain’t no cause for you to be bringing customers here who ain’t customers and insulting my good name.”

  “I know, Mr. Bono. Please understand, they had every intention of buying—”

  “Harry,” he snapped at one of his men, “wrap up the silk.” Then his eyes hardened as he looked back at the dressmaker. “We’ll be negotiatin’ the price when you return.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, no, Mr. Bono. We’ll be settling this now.”

  “Not when it’s credit, ducky.”

  “Then I won’t be taking the silk.”

  The two were at a standoff, with Robert getting more impatient by the second. “We are leaving, Mrs. Mortimer,” he said, his words coming out as a low growl. “I cannot think what you are about, but I have had enough. Do you wish us to leave without you?” It was an idle threat. He had no intention of abandoning her here, but he also didn’t want to loiter here while she played at whatever game was going on between them.

  Bono arched a brow, his expression turning to a smug superiority. “Would you prefer to stay here, Mrs. Mortimer?”

  Robert watched her swallow nervously, her gaze darting between the door and Mr. Bono, but her voice came out hard and cold. “Name your price, Mr. Bono.”

  “Two guinea.”

  She gasped with horror. “That’s outrageous,” she cried, “and you know it!”

  “That’s the price.”

  “I won’t pay—”

  Robert released a curse that was not meant for ladies’ ears, but he was rapidly beginning to wonder at Mrs. Mortimer’s claim to that title. After all, she was standing here dickering with a man who had been molesting her person. But one glance at the “lamp bearers,” and he knew they were out of time. The men surrounding them were moving in. If it came to a fight, then there was no way Robert could protect himself, much less either woman.

  Loath though he was to do it, Robert pulled out his own purse. With a curse of disgust, he fished out two coins and tossed them on top of a nearby crate.

  “There’s your money,” he all but snarled. Then he grabbed the bolt from the thug and jerked his head at Gwen. “Outside. Now.”

  It took them much too long to escape the warehouse, but they did. Gwen made to slow as she took a deep breath of the fish-scented air. It was foul, but it was better than what was inside the closely packed warehouse. Robert tagged her bottom with the end of the bolt. “Go!” he breathed. He had already ascertained that Mrs. Mortimer was behind them, moving just as rapidly as Robert. But none of them were faster than Mr. Bono himself. He must have some secret pathway through the warren, Robert thought uncharitably, because before they made it to the carriage, he saw the man crossing to stand before Gwen.

  Urbane as ever, Mr. Bono bowed deeply over Gwen’s hand. “I can see that I have offended your brother, Lady Gwen. Please let me apologize. Perhaps we can find a way to do business another day.”

  “I would not count on that,” Robert growled as he handed off the bolt of silk to the coachman.

  The man turned and executed a deep bow, but kept his eye on Gwen. “Perhaps not today, but Mrs. Mortimer and I can come to some arrangement for other silks. I believe a soft rose would be exactly your color, don’t you think? As sweet as your lovely cheeks. Makes a man think of things he ought not with a lady like you.”

  “Oh, Mr. Bono!” said Gwen, her blush burning hotter as she looked away.

  “Get back!” Robert growled as he was at last free to step forward aggressively against the bastard.

  Mr. Bono back
ed away immediately, his bow deep and deferential. “Don’t you worry, guv,” he said. “I know I can’t do anything but look at the likes of yer sister.” He cast a wink at Gwen that had Robert growling anew. “And don’t you be mad at him,” he said to Gwen. “It’s a man’s right to protect his sister from the likes of me.”

  That was the moment Robert realized the man’s cleverness. With one sentence, he had cast Robert in the role of overprotective brother, while Bono was the charming rogue. He laid even odds that Gwen would come back again, only this time without her bear of a brother. Damnation!

  And just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the man turned to the dressmaker.

  “A pleasure as always, Mrs. Mortimer.”

  “Of course, Mr. Bono,” she said with a smile. She made a valiant effort, but Robert could see the strain in her eyes and the pinched tightness to her smile. Then she turned toward the carriage while Bono winked at Robert.

  “I won’t lay a hand on yer sister, I swear. Thankfully, other women are not so exalted, what?” And with that the man abruptly swatted Mrs. Mortimer’s behind. She released a squeak of alarm as she completed the climb into the carriage, but she said nothing while Mr. Bono released a hearty chuckle. “You have a good afternoon, now!” And with that he dropped into a low, mocking bow. Robert didn’t know how the man could make a deep bow insolent, but somehow he did. And he had half a mind to whip the man, except of course that it would only prove him insane and overprotective. Bloody cheek.

  All he could do was to climb into the carriage and slam the door shut. Lord, he was so livid, he expected to take the rest of the ride back home just to find the calm to not punch something. Sadly, he was not given a respite in which to fume. As soon as the carriage began moving, Gwen turned on him.

  “Really, Robert, what did you mean by all this? How can you insist on coming and then keep me from purchasing anything? If this is what you mean by my being responsible for my own funds, then I cannot think that you are serious. Why, you—”

  “Gwen, please!” he said, exasperated as he leaned forward to look earnestly at Mrs. Mortimer. “Are you all right?”

  The lady’s eyes narrowed and her color was high. She took a moment, as if she, too, were trying to get hold of her temper, but she obviously failed. Because a second later she was blasting him as if he had been the one to accost her. “I knew I should not have let you come. I knew it! But no, I trusted to your understanding of business, to your promise to be discreet. My God, do you know what you have done today?”

  “Done?” he snapped back, his own temper slipping free. “What have I done but pay two guineas for some blasted silk? And to that bastard!”

  “That bastard is the only one who will give me credit! And now his prices will be tripled! What you have done, my high-handed lord, is ruin me and my business!”

  “Ruin you? I paid for the damn silk!”

  “And how many dresses can I make from that? One, maybe two? What about muslin and lace, thread and buttons? Did you think about that while you were ruining me?”

  “He was accosting you!”

  “He was most certainly not!” she snapped back.

  He slammed back against the seat, and his mind’s eye unerringly repeated what he had seen. “So it’s true. You are his mistress.”

  Crack! The slap of her hand across his face surprised him as much from the speed as the vehemence of her attack. His head shot to the side. He hadn’t even seen the blow coming.

  “I am no man’s mistress. Not his and certainly not yours!”

  He didn’t move, but he felt the imprint of her hand burning on his cheek and his fury coalesced into a cold, ugly thing. “I know what I saw, Mrs. Mortimer. But of course, it is no business of mine. And,” he added, his eyes narrowing into hard slits, “no business of ours will be exactly what you get.”

  He saw that Mrs. Mortimer understood immediately what he meant. She blanched to a ghostly white, but didn’t say a word. It took Gwen a moment longer to comprehend, but when she did, she bristled with all her youthful contrariness.

  “Why, you interfering, high-handed, arrogant…brother!” Gwen spat the last word as if it were the gravest insult. “I do not have the slightest understanding of what just happened, but I completely agree with Mrs. Mortimer. It is all your fault, Robert! All of it!” Then, to prove that she wasn’t completely at a loss, she turned to Mrs. Mortimer, her expression concerned. “Am I to understand that Mr. Bono accosted you?”

  Mrs. Mortimer released a sigh of frustration. “Gwen, dear, please do not be concerned. It is the sad truth that women in my position are accosted constantly. Your brother yesterday, Mr. Bono today. It is a game they play—”

  “Do not think to put me in the same category as that villain,” Robert snapped, but guilt was burning a dark hole in his gut.

  Mrs. Mortimer went on as if she had not heard him. “It is why I wear padding when I visit Mr. Bono. He likes to…er…touch. And if I allow just a little touching, the price is better. I praise his masterly skills in front of his men, I giggle and simper, and yes, I even tease. If I could afford to go elsewhere, I would. Indeed, that is why I am working with a new woman who will hopefully solve this problem. But she has only just begun to work and was unavailable this morning.”

  Gwen frowned. “But you shouldn’t have to do business that way.”

  Mrs. Mortimer reached out and touched Gwen’s hand. “Should and shouldn’t do not apply to some of us. Be grateful that you are protected.”

  “Well,” huffed Gwen, “you shall not be punished because of my brother’s boorishness.” She shot a withering glare at Robert. “I believe, Mrs. Mortimer, that I shall double my trousseau purchase. And I think I will get all of my friends to visit you as well. It shall be a condition of attending my wedding. They must all wear a gown made by you.”

  Color returned to the dressmaker’s cheeks, and Robert had the churlish instinct to be furious at her for impelling his sister to do such a thing. He had been trying to protect the woman, damn her. And she had somehow managed to turn him into a villain and his sister into her greatest patron.

  “My God,” he whispered, “you are the most brilliant businessman it has ever been my misfortune to meet.”

  Both women turned to look at him, but it was the dressmaker who spoke, with an arched brow, no less. “I am not a businessman at all, my lord. In fact, I believe that is the source of our difficulties. You have no idea what to do with a woman in business.”

  “Because a woman ought not to be in business,” he groused. And then he could have bitten off his own tongue for his stupidity. He merely meant that she ought to have a man to do her purchasing and the like. After all, if a man were to go to Mr. Bono’s, then all this havy cavy nonsense would not happen. It was all perfectly logical, and yet it was absolutely not the thing to say to these two women. To say that they were insulted was a mild understatement. Gwen huffed and called him the type of names he had long since learned to tune out. Mrs. Mortimer simply looked at him with pity in her dark eyes. Pity! When he was the damned viscount and she was a nobody dressmaker!

  Good Lord, but he was beyond grateful when they finally arrived at the shop. He leaped out immediately, simply to remove himself from the diatribe Gwen continued to level at his head.

  “Gwen, my dear,” he said, interrupting her in midword, “I believe I shall walk from here. Pray go home and let Mother know what has happened. I’m sure she would love to know the exact details of my perfidy.”

  If there was one thing his mother enjoyed, it was a lively discussion of his faults. In the meantime, he gestured to the coachman. The footman was already carrying the bolt of blasted yellow silk into the shop. If Robert had his choice, he would turn around and depart immediately. But politeness required that he open the shop door for Mrs. Mortimer. She smiled her thanks, her expression tight. And politeness also required that she invite him inside.

  “It has been a long day, my lord. Would you like some tea before
you depart?” Her words were no more and no less than what he expected. But some devil in his heart made him look her in the eye, waiting until she finally met his gaze. “My lord?”

  “This is not done between us. I will not stay now, but I will return.”

  He watched understanding and dismay fill her expression. But there was a spark of excitement there. He was sure of it. Excitement, desire, all of the feminine reactions that said, Do come back. Do challenge me again. He read them in her eyes. Or so he told himself. Then he spun on his heel and walked away.

  Chapter 6

  Robert didn’t go to his home. Nor did he head for his club. He needed time to think and analyze his emotions, and so he headed for the one place he could be himself: his brothel. On the occasion of his sixteenth birthday, Robert had been summoned into his father’s library and told it was time to become a man. But as his father never did anything that was less than grand, he presented his son with not just a prostitute for the night, but an entire brothel, named the Chandler, a place where any man could get his wick lit. And, as was typical with all his father’s business purchases, the reality was a great deal more sordid than the presentation.

  He and his father had shown up at the brothel steps, only to stand at the doorway for a terribly, terribly long time. Eventually the door was opened by the only standing “candle” in the house, the rest having been stricken by fever.

  His father had taken one whiff of the stench and started to back away. Robert was doing the same, except that the “candle” fainted straight into his arms. At that point, he had no choice. He half carried, half dragged the girl to the nearest settee, then sent his father to fetch a doctor. His father didn’t return, of course, but the doctor did. And together, the two men toiled as no heir to the Earl of Willington had done in generations.

  Ten days later, nearly half the candles had survived. And when Robert collapsed, it was the madame of the house who, settling him in her own bed, nursed him as his own mother had never done. From that moment on, Robert and Chandelle were fast friends. And the brothel became something else entirely, though with the same name. It was a hospital of sorts for working girls. A place where the women could heal or die with dignity. If some of its former trade continued, Robert wasn’t aware of it. And he certainly didn’t take a cut of the profit.