How to Enjoy a Scandal

by Adrienne Basso

  “But we have read it anyway,” Gwendolyn drawled.

  “Since it is not intellectual literature.”

  The arrival of the doctor neatly ended the discussion.

  Aunt Mildred rushed to his side and Uncle Fletcher and Emma quickly followed. Gwendolyn tried to slip from the room while the good doctor was giving her aunt, uncle and sister an update on Dorothea’s condition, but the viscount blocked the exit. Deliberately.

  “Meet me in the garden, near the rose arbor in ten minutes,” he whispered. “We need to talk.”

  Gwendolyn turned her head away and pretended she did not hear him. And then she felt his hands on her shoulders. With only the slightest pressure he was able to draw her face close.

  “The door provides us a bit of much needed privacy along with the perfect opportunity for a stolen kiss.”

  Gwendolyn hissed out a breath of annoyance and batted his hands away. “You must not say such things. Especially with my family so near.”

  “I told you that we need to talk.”

  “And I insisted there is nothing to be said.”

  He stepped back and bowed his head. “You have got to be the most obstinate, pig-headed female I have ever known, and given the number of my female acquaintances through the years, that is an extraordinary feat.”

  “Then you should be pleased to be well rid of me.”

  Gwendolyn tried to smile, but it was a shallow, half smile at best.

  His brow knit together in suspicion. “What do you mean?”

  “I am returning home with my family this afternoon and since it appears that social events in the area will be curtailed for a while, ’tis doubtful I shall see you anytime soon.”

  He gazed at her with a worried expression. “We had an agreement.”

  “We did and I have honored it.” Gwendolyn drew in a ragged breath and straightened her shoulders. “I have accompanied you to any and all events that you requested. But clearly there will be no celebrations until this mess with those horrid men who attacked our carriage last night is sorted out.”

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “I will call on you tomorrow.”

  “I will not be receiving visitors.”

  “Damn it, woman, you cannot avoid me forever!”

  Jason opened his mouth, then closed it. He maneuvered her farther behind the large door way and snared her hands in his. “I love you, Gwendolyn.”

  The words melted over her. A brief stab of overwhelming joy, followed by a profound sense of sadness. The turmoil inside her was nearly suffocating, the frustration extreme.

  In an act of self-preservation, Gwendolyn deliberately stomped on her own toe. The sudden, sharp pain brought her back to her senses, enabling her to pull away. “It does not matter. It cannot matter.”

  “It grieves me to see you in distress, Gwendolyn. The day following our night together should be one of joy and excitement.” He looked unwaveringly into her face.

  “I should like to think that you came to me last night for other reasons besides loneliness and fear.”

  She met his eyes with a level stare. His words struck her deeply, compelling her to answer him honestly.

  “When I remember last night, I concentrate my mind on the undeniable beauty of what happened between us.

  ’Tis a memory I will cherish. But that is all it can ever be, Jason, a distant memory.”

  Gwendolyn took a deep breath, tr ying to ease the light-headed feeling that had suddenly overtaken her. It was such an odd sensation, as though she were standing outside of herself, listening to someone else speak those words. It would never be a distant memory. Jason Barrington would dominate her waking thoughts and haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. Of that she was very certain. But she would never tell him.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “You are unaware of the circumstances. You must allow me to explain. Do not shut me out of your life. Please, Gwendolyn, do not toss away this chance for happiness.”

  She stared broodingly at him for several moments while her mouth grew dry. It was a foolish remark, yet he sounded so sincere. Would it really be so awful to listen to what he had to say? They fell into a short silence that was tense and uncomfortable.

  Thankfully, Uncle Fletcher claimed their attention.

  “The doctor informs us that Dorothea has eaten a light luncheon and is taking a nap. He suggests we wait for her to awaken before she starts her journey home.”

  “But we can hardly continue to impose on Lord Fairhurst’s hospitality,” Gwendolyn protested. “Would it not be best to go home now and return later when Dorothea is ready to travel?”

  “We have no idea when that will occur,” Uncle Fletcher replied. “Far better to wait and leave together.”

  Gwendolyn gritted her teeth, annoyed with her uncle’s logic. But it was impossible to argue, without arousing suspicion as to why she was so eager to be gone from Moorehead Manor.

  “Might I suggest a visit to the portrait gallery,” Lord Fairhurst said. “’Tis a very pleasant way to pass the time.”

  Uncle Fletcher declined, expressing an interest in an outdoor stroll. After a moment’s hesitation Aunt Mildred placed her fingers on the viscount’s proffered arm.

  “You are too kind, my lord. We have heard much about the quality and variety of the artwork in your gallery. ’Tis perfectly splendid to have a tour with you as our personal guide. Come along, girls.”

  “Stay by my side, Emma,” Gwendolyn requested as she grudgingly followed her aunt and the viscount.

  Though it was obvious that Emma would prefer to be with the viscount, she obliged. They entered the gallery, which was long and wide, with a procession of windows running along one side of the room. Gwendolyn was well aware of Jason’s eyes watching her closely, so she made a point of keeping Emma engaged in conversation.

  Gwendolyn knew Emma was excited at the opportunity to view the works of several famous painters and intended to ask her younger sister many questions in an effort to keep herself distracted. Her sister had always been interested in art and her talent was striking, if raw and untutored.

  The paintings were all portraits of the viscount’s ancestors, and he explained that his father had generously allowed him to transfer some of his favorites from their ancestral home to the manor.

  “’Tis like a journey back through time,” Emma remarked, as they slowly strolled down the gallery. “Not only is it a lesson in art history, but a reflection of the times in which these individuals lived.”

  Gwendolyn tried to lose herself in the beauty of the artwork. She was gradually starting to relax when Emma suddenly stopped short. She grasped Gwendolyn’s hand and squeezed her fingers. Hard.

  “My goodness, what is wrong?” Gwendolyn asked.

  Emma’s eyes grew wide and she glanced quickly, and fearfully, over her shoulder. Lord Fairhurst and Aunt Mildred were standing several feet away, out of earshot if they kept their voices lowered.

  “The painting.” Emma lifted her hand and pointed at the group portrait in front of them. Her hand shook noticeably.

  Gwendolyn followed the line of her sister’s quivering fingers. A noblewoman, dressed in an elaborate Tudor style gown was surrounded by a group of children. They were a solemn, handsome family and Gwendolyn could not help the smile that came to her lips when she beheld the two youngest children, an adorable pair of twin boys.

  “What is wrong with the portrait?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “I painted it,” Emma whispered.

  Gwendolyn laughed. “Very amusing.”

  Emma took a shuddering breath and slumped forward. “I am not joking. I painted that portrait.”

  “Oh, gracious, Emma, don’t be absurd,” Gwendolyn exclaimed in astonishment. “How in the world would one of your paintings end up in Lord Fairhurst’s gallery?”

  “I do not know.” A dark ruddy hue tinted Emma’s pale complexion. “I only know that is my work.”

  “Are you certain?” Bright sunlight streaked thro
ugh the main section of the gallery. Gwendolyn shaded her eyes with her hand and gazed at the painting. “The glare of the sun is extreme and is no doubt distorting the painting. Perhaps if you view it up close, you will discover you are mistaken.”

  A thunderous expression descended over Emma’s lovely face. “For pity’s sake, Gwen, I am not a simpleton!

  I know my own work and I can state emphatically that I painted that picture.”

  The frantic tone of Emma’s voice caught the viscount’s attention. He shifted his gaze toward them. Gwendolyn’s body tensed with the effort to appear innocent. He moved in their direction, but at that moment Aunt Mildred called out a question. Lord Fairhurst hesitated, then politely turned to answer.

  “What are we going to do?” Emma cried out. “This is horrible.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened,” Gwendolyn said.

  “How did you get permission to enter the manor and even view the paintings?”

  “Uncle Fletcher arranged it for me. Through Mr.

  Ardley.” Emma looked down and her clasped hands.

  “Last year I once again begged Uncle Fletcher to allow me to have proper drawing lessons. As usual, he was not inclined to grant my request and gave a list of reasons as long as my arm. I suppose in the end he felt sorry for me, or else I must have looked so pathetically upset, he said he would reconsider.

  “A few days later he told me that perhaps he could arrange for a proper drawing master from London to teach me for several months in the summer. However, in the meantime, he had asked Mr. Ardley for permission for me to view the paintings at Moorehead Manor. Mr.

  Ardley agreed and even said if I wished, I would be able to study and copy any that I liked.”

  “I never knew about any of this,” Gwendolyn said.

  “Why did you never tell me?”

  Emma blushed to the roots of her hair. “I am very sensitive about my work, Gwen. I wanted to make the piece as perfect as I could before I let anyone see it. And when I realized it would never be good enough, I stopped trying to fix it.”

  Gwendolyn swallowed a small tightness in her throat.

  “Then how did it end up here?”

  Emma’s lids lowered. “I have no idea. The last time I saw it, the painting was hidden beneath a cloth in the small third floor room back home where I store my painting supplies.”

  “Who else knew about the painting?”

  “No one.” Emma’s brow knit together in a fierce frown. “Except Uncle Fletcher. And Mr. Ardley, I suppose, though Uncle Fletcher was the only one who viewed it. Even though I knew it was flawed, I hoped the picture would show him I had potential and talent and would help persuade him to hire the drawing master.”

  “’Tis a most extraordinary tale,” Gwendolyn mused.

  She struggled, yet could barely make any sense of what her sister was saying.

  “We must tell Lord Fairhurst,” Emma decided.

  “No!” Gwendolyn reached out and grabbed her sister’s arm, forcibly pulling Emma back.

  Emma subjected her to an astonished look. “He must be told! The original was extremely valuable.”

  “Indeed.” Gwendolyn cleared her throat. “But we need to consider first how to approach the matter.”

  “How to approach it! Gwen, have you quite lost your mind? There is nothing to consider. We must relate the truth to the viscount. At once.”

  “No! We must keep quiet until we have figured out what precisely happened,” Gwendolyn insisted. Though she kept her expression impassive, her heart was racing as though she had just seen a ghost.

  For a long moment they just stood there, darting uneasy glances at each other.

  “Waiting will only make it worse,” Emma insisted.

  “For whom? Uncle Fletcher? Did he take your painting? You said he was the only other person who saw it.”

  “Why would Uncle Fletcher take it?”

  “I don’t know.” Gwendolyn pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, trying to block out the pain of a sudden headache. “We cannot go to the viscount with so many unanswered questions, Emma.

  Especially without pondering the biggest question of all.

  If that is your painting, then where in God’s name is the original?”

  Even as his hands moved swiftly, Cyril Ardley’s eyes were trained on the door, ever alert to any interruption.

  He rummaged through the drawers of the viscount’s desk, searching for the small purse of coins kept there to pay any unexpected household accounts.

  It was not in its usual position. Cursing loudly, Cyril impatiently yanked open the other drawers. The viscount and his guests were enjoying an afternoon meal, but that could end at any moment. He had to hurry.

  He pulled hard on the bottom left drawer, stunned to find it locked. Heedless of the implication, he grasped the silver letter opener. Using the sharp tip, he was able to jam the lock. The drawer slid open. The leather purse lay neatly inside, bulging with coins.

  Cyril lifted the fat purse in his hand. The weight of it was a comfort; there was plenty inside. If he took but half, it would make a substantial payment.

  “What the devil are you doing, Ardley?”

  Cyril jumped and let out a startled gasped. “Bloody hell, you scared ten years off my life. What are you doing in here? I thought you were having lunch with the viscount.”

  “The meal ended twenty minutes ago.” Fletcher Ellingham walked into the study, his eyes widening when he glimpsed the fat purse the steward held. “What have you got there?”

  Cyril’s hand started moving behind his back, but then he stopped and sighed, giving up all pretense. “I’m hoping if I make a payment, the moneylender’s thugs will go back to York and leave us alone.”

  “They have contacted you again?”

  Cyril snorted. “They believed they were contacting me last night. Instead, they encountered the viscount and your nieces.”

  Fletcher’s jaw went slack. “Those men were after you?

  It was not a random attack of highwaymen?”

  “Hardly.” Cyril bowed his head. “Last night Lord Fairhurst took the estate coach that I normally use, since his carriage had broken a wheel. Those ruffians stopped the coach, believing I was inside. They were sent by their leader, Hunter, to remind me that my monthly payment is overdue.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “I’ve spoken with the man the viscount captured. I suspected those men might be after me and the prisoner confirmed it.”

  Fletcher let out a whistle of astonishment. “The moment Lord Fairhurst learns the truth, it will be over, my friend. For you and me.”

  Cyril sat down hard on the desk chair and dropped his head into his hands. How had it come so far, so fast, and gotten so completely out of control? He thought back on all of his mistakes, wishing with all his heart he could have made better choices, better decisions.

  “What am I to do, Fletcher?”

  “Buck up, man. We shall think of something.”

  Cyril shook his head, knowing he had reached the end. He would be dismissed, disgraced, in all likelihood sent to prison. “I need to tell Lord Fairhurst the truth.

  At least I can salvage a shred of my dignity by revealing it all myself.”

  “Surely it hasn’t come to that!” Fletcher let out a sharp breath. “There might be another way. Where is the prisoner being held?”

  Cyril lifted his head. “In the cellar. It has a sturdy lock and no windows, so there is little chance of escape.”

  “Is there a guard?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then this should not be too difficult.” Fletcher reached for a sheet of parchment, picked up a quill and moved the inkpot in front of the steward. “You need to write a short note. We will give it to this man, release him from the cellar and instruct him to bring it to the man in charge. What did you call him? Hunter?”

  Cyril felt his spirits tumble. For just an instant, he had a glimmer of hope that t
his mess could somehow all be set to rights. “We cannot allow this man to escape! He is a violent criminal, responsible for harming one of your nieces. Don’t you care?”

  “Of course I care! That’s why we need to get him out of Moorehead Manor as quickly as possible. If we aid this man in his escape, it will show good faith.”

  A cynical laugh escaped from Cyril’s lips. “These are not honorable men. They are not interested in good faith. They only want their money.”

  “Then they shall have it.” Fletcher pressed the quill into Cyril’s hand. “Write and tell them you shall pay off the debt in full. It will take me a few days, but I know a way to secure a substantial amount of funds.”

  Cyril felt a bud of hope burst into his heart. “Enough to set everything to rights?”

  “No, not everything.” Fletcher sighed with genuine regret. “There is not enough to repay the viscount, but I can procure enough to get the moneylenders off your back.”

  “Good Lord, Fletcher, if you have had the solution within your grasp all these months, why have you not come forward?”

  “The money is Emma’s dowry. What’s left of it. I had been hoping to keep the majority of it intact, but I see now there is no other way.”

  Cyril dipped the pen and began to write. It was difficult to compose a letter under such circumstances, but he managed to make his position to his creditor clear, including the date, time and location of where he would make the payment. He sanded the page, then held a thick stick of wax over the candle flame and sealed the note closed.

  “’Tis done,” Cyril said.

  “Good.” Fletcher nodded. “Now return that purse of coins where you found it. There is no need to be borrowing any more from Lord Fairhurst.”

  Feeling slightly embarrassed, Cyril placed the purse back in drawer and locked it, using the letter opener. He felt a sense of relief, yet it was tempered with true regret.

  “I wish there was another way,” he admitted.

  “So do I,” Fletcher agreed. “But we have put ourselves in a serious predicament and inadvertently placed others in danger. ’Tis apparent that we must dig our way out before anyone else gets hurt.”