Chasing Scandal

by Leslie V. Knowles

  He stopped when Alice stood firmly in front of him, her arms folded.

  "When are you going to untie Miss Dorsey?" she demanded.

  "That depends on Miss Dorsey.”

  ...And if she was as guilty as he thought.

  CHAPTER 7

  Inside, the walls and ceilings reflected the manor’s more recent age, with none of the gilding or intricate plasterwork of the past century, which further suited Tristan’s preferences. Their footsteps echoed in the empty space. Cloth covers protected the receiving room furniture, and the paintings that had once graced the walls had long ago been put into storage. Still, the entry hall had only the slightest hint of dust and the freshness of the air inside told Tristan the overseer had visited recently.

  He led his two irritated guests to the upper floor. "Alice, this will be your room for the duration of our stay.” He opened the door to a moderate-sized oblong room papered in light green. Pale morning light slanted through the window onto a green and gray patterned rug, a graceful oak bedstead and a matching vanity. He placed the leather case on the bed. "There are dry clothes in the case,” he told her as he stepped back into the hallway. "Please remain here until I return,” he added before shutting the door.

  The Dorsey woman had remained silent after that question when they awoke, but now she turned her gaze on him and he recognized the fury and loathing it contained. "How could you betray the trust of a child?"

  "Alice is in no danger from me,” he retorted before guiding her into the room across the hall from Alice. "You, on the other hand, will face far more danger if you do not answer my questions.”

  He pulled her into his room, locking the door behind them. He let go of her arm and went to the writing desk to move its chair to face his fireside wingback chair. "Take a seat, Miss Dorsey,” he ordered.

  When she did, he redid the ties and secured her wrists to the chair's arms. Her dress still clung damply to her form, emphasizing cold-tautened nipples, and though her jaw clamped tightly, she could not control her shivers. The instant he finished restraining her wrists, he strode to the bed and pulled up the quilt folded at its foot and arranged it around her like a cocoon.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Making sure you do not die of lung fever during interrogation.”

  Having made sure she could not escape, he went back downstairs to move the carriage to the stable, see to the horses and retrieve the provisions and his own valise. Lack of staff guaranteed privacy, but it also made more work. By the time he returned to the house, his exhaustion weighed on him like the great sacks of grain he'd hauled while working the docks undercover.

  Tristan selected an apple from the provisions basket and brought it upstairs to Alice. He found her curled up in the center of the bed, sound asleep. He set the apple on the vanity and returned to his room.

  Once there, Tristan went directly to the wardrobe and put the contents of the valise on the shelf with the few items of clothing he kept there for unplanned visits. Selecting a shirt and trousers from the collection, he turned his head to tell the woman in the chair, "If you are of a modest mind, Miss Dorsey, you might wish to close your eyes for a few moments.” Her eyes widened when he pulled off his shirt to expose his chest. The incessant rain had washed away the gritty mud from his clothing during the long night, but the clammy linen irritated and chaffed. "I have had enough discomfort for the time being.”

  Brilliant rose washed her cheeks and she quickly averted her face. Interesting. In his experience, kept women did not blush at the sight of a man's naked chest.

  He wiped himself dry with a towel he took from a drawer at the wardrobe's base, then pulled the clean shirt over his head. In deference to his foster mother's attempts to civilize the feral child he'd been, Tristan made sure the tail of his shirt covered his anatomy before he removed his pantaloons.

  "Your modesty will no longer be tested,” Tristan told her minutes later as he bent to light a fire at the hearth. True, he was in his stocking feet, but otherwise he now wore the clean, dry clothing of a respectable country gentleman. He moved his boots beside the hearth to dry. His eyelids still felt coated with sand and he would kill for a glass of brandy, but first he needed to question the paradoxical woman tied to his desk chair.

  He settled into the wingback chair beside the hearth and crossed his legs before asking, "What is your real name and with whom are you working?"

  "My name is Julia Dorsey. I do not work for anyone.” Now that she did not defend the child, Tristan picked up a note of anxiety. "I am a lady.”

  Such sincerity. If he had not interrogated lying women in the past, he might have believed her. "Forgive the insinuation,” Tristan mocked. "I did not say for, I said with.”

  He leaned back and folded his hands. "You have held Alice for nearly three weeks, which means you are part of the scheme to force Lord Goodwin to betray England to the French. So again, with whom are you working?"

  "You are mistaken, sir.” Her green eyes narrowed and frustration tinged her voice. "My cousin’s footman was on an errand from London when he discovered an overturned carriage and brought Alice to me. Her mother and baby brother were dead, but she was alive and bleeding. My cottage was nearby so he brought her to me. I know nothing of schemes.”

  "An excellent story.” Tristan approved with an ironic tone. "Had you not threatened Lord Goodwin, I might believe you.”

  "If Lord Goodwin is being threatened, it is not by me. You, on the other hand, betray the trust of a child by claiming to be sent by her father.” She glared at him, her mouth downturned. "You stole her from my home in the middle of the night and brought us to a location you will not name.”

  She leaned forward to make her point and the quilt slipped to her waist. The warmth had softened the tips of her breasts, but the cloth still clung to her curves and jolted him with awareness. She had obviously rushed after him without donning stays.

  "Cousin Renard warned me he suspected the accident was a kidnapping attempt before he contacted Lord Goodwin to inform him that Alice was safe with me.” She stopped and raised her eyebrow as she told him, "I know my cousin, but I do not know you. So I might ask you the same question. Who are you, and why would you betray your friend?"

  "Lord Goodwin was told that Alice is being held prisoner and will be sold to a brothel if he does not pass on military secrets.”

  Her face drained of all color and her eyes blazed with revulsion.

  "You are lying. If that is what he believes, you obviously intercepted my cousin's message and forwarded your own.”

  "More likely, you are lying.’ Tristan said bluntly. That sent an angry red flush across her features. She played the part of the injured innocent well. Was her reaction guilt or indignation that he had not fallen for her story?

  He offered an alternate theory. "Or your cousin is lying.”

  "Cousin Renard is a man of honor. He would never do something so heinous,” she declared with conviction. "He risked his own life trying to get my family out of France during the Terror. The rabble murdered my parents and siblings, but he managed to rescue me. If not for him I would be dead.”

  Tristan sharpened his gaze. The Terror? Now he knew she lied. She couldn't be more than twenty. Too young to remember that bloodbath. Nearly eighteen years had passed since then.

  "That story, too, is a lie. You couldn’t remember those events even if you were there.”

  "I was only five years old, but the horror of that day is burned into my memory,” she retorted. Her voice trembled with emotion and her eyes flashed defiance. "The French rabble killed my family and Napoleon is no better than the mob who stole my birthright. Why would I do anything to help that cause? Why would I lie about such a thing?"

  "To gain sympathy from a gullible interrogator?" He sent her a sardonic smile. "To protect your partner in crime?"

  She slumped back against the chair, but held his gaze. "It is clear I am wasting my breath. You will not believe anything I have to say, nor do I believe
you. We are at an impasse.”

  Turning the tables of accusation was a common tactic used to cast doubt in the interrogator's mind. He often used it himself. But something in his gut wanted to believe her. Tristan seldom denied his gut instincts, and his gut instincts told him the woman truly believed her story. However, that didn’t mean her story was the truth. Nor did it mean it was not lust instead of his gut that wanted to accept her claim.

  "I think you may believe what you say,” he finally acknowledged. "But if you aren’t a willing participant in this treasonous scheme, you have been made a pawn in it. Despite what you have been told, I am an agent of the crown and Lord Goodwin sent me to rescue his daughter.”

  She sat up at that. "If that is true, why did you not approach me in the daylight as an honorable man?"

  "I doubted the kidnappers, you, would release her simply because I asked.” He gave her a droll grin. "Even if I said please.”

  "I am not a kidnapper.”

  "I still do not know that,” he countered. "However, I shall notify my superior of your claim and he will verify your history. In the meantime, you will remain here, with Alice and me.” He stood and readjusted the quilt to cover her. "You will be so good as to give me your cousin Renard's full name and I shall allow you to change into dry clothing.”

  Now that he suspected Miss Dorsey might be an innocent in the deadly game someone played, Tristan knew his conscience would plague him if he didn’t ease her discomfort.

  "If you are truly with the Foreign Office, you should have asked me that first.” Those green eyes suddenly gleamed with smug amusement. "Renard is what my French grandmother called him. You would know him as Thomas Foxley, the Earl of Summerfield.”

  The Earl of Summerfield? Besides being Lord Goodwin's predecessor, the earl was one of the staunchest patriots of the kingdom. The man had served the Foreign Office for nearly thirty years. During that time, he had not married, nor did Tristan remember hearing if he had any other close relatives. Certainly, no one he knew had ever mentioned a cousin.

  She had to be lying again. But tossing out a name that well known would be folly if not true. Had Goodwin told Summerfield of the threats? If so, why had Goodwin not said so?

  Summerfield had stepped aside because he was ill with consumption, too ill to have been a part of Alice’s rescue if the Dorsey woman’s story was to be believed. He would have connections, though. Had his sources suspected the threat of danger to Goodwin’s family, directed to intercept, only to have his men arrive too late to prevent the “accident?”

  Once Ravencliffe sent someone to guard the child and free him to pursue his original mission, he would search out those connections.

  Family ties made men vulnerable. Was that why Summerfield never married? Was that why no one knew of a young female cousin?

  What the devil was going on?

  CHAPTER 8

  Julia enjoyed a moment of satisfaction at the shocked recognition that twitched across Mr. Sheffield’s cheekbones and slackened his jaw before her irritation returned. Cousin Renard, who had insisted she call him by his family nickname since she was a child, was above reproach. The Earls of Summerfield had been faithful supporters of the Kingdom for more than five generations, even defying the commonwealth and Cromwell. She did not know exactly what Renard had done for the government before his health began to fail, but she knew he wielded a great deal of power and had the respect of the ton. If Mr. Sheffield was who he said he was, her cousin’s word should make him release her.

  When she’d viewed him in the morning light, she realized he was the man she’d seen in Portsmouth. The one who’d flirted with her before she taken sanctuary in the drapers shop. Was that how he’d found her?

  "Will you untie me now?" she asked. "I am hardly a threat. You are far larger and stronger than I.”

  He did not answer, but she watched him weigh her words against his suspicions and accusations. The longer he studied her, the more uncomfortable she became. She squirmed. The wooden seat was not made for comfort. His eyes narrowed. Abruptly, he left the room.

  She shifted in the seat again. Where had he gone?

  He returned minutes later, a collection of lady's clothing in his arms. He set them on the bed, then came to untie her wrists. When he'd finished, he looked at her, crystal blue eyes clear, direct, and commanding. A shiver that had nothing to do with her wet clothes flashed from her belly down to her toes and up to her fingertips.

  "Do not think to escape. If you try, I will hunt you down long before you succeed in reaching another estate or the main road. Alice is now my responsibility and you remain my prisoner until I receive confirmation from my superiors.”

  He stood and backed away from the chair to allow her to rise. "You are of similar height to my foster mother if slighter, so the clothes on the bed should suffice until your own are dry."

  She let the quilt drop from her shoulders and the cooler air immediately chilled her damp clothes. When she crossed the room and picked up the jonquil-yellow day gown, he told her, "It is some years out of fashion, but, we will not be entertaining, so I doubt it matters.”

  The dress might not be of the latest fashion, but it was lovely. Pale green embroidered leaves accented the neckline and hem and a matching band of green ribbon anchored the finely pleated skirts below the bodice. A slow warmth crept up her neck and heated her cheeks when she noted that he had also brought the full array of undergarments. She shivered, though the room was losing its chill as the fireplace did its job.

  She did not quite meet his eyes as she thanked him. "If you will tell me where I might change –"

  "You will change here,” he said bluntly. "You will not be left alone until I receive confirmation that your story is true.”

  "If you will wait outside the door, then –"

  "That would leave you alone.” He stepped over and behind her. When she felt him tugging on the strings at the back of her dress, she gasped and tried to move away.

  "Don’t be alarmed. I’m merely acting the Abigail for you.” He tugged her back. Her bodice slackened and she quickly caught the cloth before it could fall away and expose her to his gaze. Her face burned with mortification. She had not bothered with stays in her rush to save Alice. Her shift was old, worn, and thin. She closed her eyes and fought to keep her breathing even.

  That he had begun undressing her in so efficient a fashion shocked her as did the strange shafts of awareness that tightened her belly and bosom. Her breath shortened, catching whenever his knuckles brushed bare skin. He didn’t linger at his task, nor did he take further liberties, but she felt his every touch with acute embarrassment. And longing? Was she that kind of woman?

  As soon as he finished, he stepped away and walked over to the door before taking an arm-folded stance in front of it. His eyes glinted with an intensity she recognized. Inexperienced as she was, she saw that he had been as affected by his actions as had she. A tiny flame of pride lit inside her at the sense of power the knowledge gave her.

  When he said, "There is a chamber pot beneath the bed should you need relief,” the burst of pride withered.

  "Surely you do not expect me to use a chamber pot in your presence,” she protested.

  "Nature makes its own demands, Miss Dorsey. I am sorry that the current situation does so as well.”

  He would not leave her alone? Then she would grit her teeth and deal with the abominable circumstances as though such exposure made no difference to her. She didn’t blush in front of her maid, she would not blush in front of Mr. Sheffield.

  She bent and pulled the ceramic necessity from under the bed and, using the bed as a shield, quickly finished. Returning porcelain bowl under the bed, she stood and turned her back on the man by the door. Defiantly, she allowed the dress to fall to the floor. When she lifted the hem of her shift. she took a quick breath for courage and jerked it up and over her head.

  Turning to take the dry shift from the pile of clothes on the bed, she peered through her las
hes at the man by the door. Relief – and disappointment? – washed over her when she saw he'd focused his eyes at the floor, though he maintained his guardian posture in front of the door. Now that she knew he did not watch her, she managed to pull on a dry shift and—thanks be—stays, and dress in short order. When she was effectively covered again, she bowed to the necessity of aid and said, "If you would be so kind as to act as Abigail once more, Mr. Sheffield, I am ready.”

  WHEN HIS PRISONER HAD turned away from him to shed her outer clothes, Tristan set his jaw and lowered his eyes. Loosening the woman's clothing had left his body throbbing with desire and his brain empty of any thought but of how much he wanted to lick and nibble the soft skin at the base of her neck. The tendrils of hair that had slipped loose in the wet struggle on the road were rain fresh and had taken on a slight wave as they dried.

  He listened to the changes in her breathing as she removed each garment. The dress made only the slightest rustle as it slithered to the floor. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of her short inhale told him the instant she removed her shift. He didn't need to raise his eyes to know she stood beside the bed clad only in stockings.

  He listened to the soft creak of the bed as she sat to remove those stockings. He could picture the fine cotton rolling from thigh to knee to ankle and finally falling free of delicate toes. He suffered through that vivid image twice until the bed creak told him she now stood sorting through his foster mother's castoffs. Naked.

  That image stiffened his member and threatened to overwhelm him with the clarity of his imagination. He nearly abandoned honor in order to see if his vision came anywhere near the reality, but he willed himself not to give in. Whatever she was – a lying and guilty part of a conspiracy or an innocent woman giving sanctuary to an endangered child – he would allow her the dignity of dressing unobserved.