A Scandalous Bargain

by Burke, Darcy

  Mrs. Chamberlain abruptly straightened, her gaze locking on him. “Your note said she fell from the balcony. How did that happen?”

  “Presumably, she lost her balance.”

  “Presumably? You didn’t see what happened?”

  “I did not.” After Miss Whitford left, he’d gone inside and run into Baines. Thomas hadn’t intended to lie, but as he told the butler what happened, the story had simply come out that way: Thomas had been in the sitting room when he’d heard Thea make a sound, followed by glass breaking and a thud. He rushed outside to see her lying on the stones below.

  “That doesn’t make sense. How could she have fallen?”

  “As you know, the balcony does not have a very high railing. It’s barely two feet tall.”

  “Yes, but Thea is short, like me.” Mrs. Chamberlain was about the same height as Thea and she had the same blonde hair. Unlike Thea, she was rather round, with full cheeks and small, brown eyes which reminded Thomas of her son. Gilbert Chamberlain had been arrested for extortion just prior to his wedding five days ago. As much as Thomas didn’t care for Mrs. Chamberlain, she’d been through a great deal of late, and Thomas couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

  “I don’t understand how she would lose her balance.” Mrs. Chamberlain narrowed her eyes at Thomas. “This is very strange.”

  It was impossible to miss the distrust in her expression and tone. Thomas’s sympathy for her began to wane. Thea had filled the woman’s head with stories of Thomas’s inadequacies—as Thea saw them—and Mrs. Chamberlain had some time ago ceased disguising her dislike for him.

  “She was drunk,” he said flatly, not caring if saying so was indelicate. “You know how she can be when she imbibes.” Even worse than when she was sober, and Thea could be an absolute virago. His wife had turned out to be nothing like the young woman he’d courted. Thomas had learned firsthand how his own mother had been wooed into marriage by someone only to learn they were not who they’d seemed.

  “Of course you would say that,” Mrs. Chamberlain spat. “You’re always criticizing my dear Thea.”

  In truth, it was the opposite—her dear Thea was always criticizing Thomas, but he didn’t correct her. Nothing he said would change the woman’s mind about him or, more importantly, her daughter.

  “You asked what happened, and I’m telling you. She’d had more glasses of port than I can count.” That much was true. He’d long ago stopped paying attention to much of anything Thea did, except where it pertained to their daughter. And when it came to Regan, Thea didn’t do much.

  Mrs. Chamberlain stroked Thea’s pale face. “My poor, sweet girl.” She looked back to Thomas, her features drawn with anguish and fury. “You could have pushed her.”

  He stared at her, his temper simmering. “I could have, but I didn’t.”

  A flash of shock passed through her eyes. “I should notify Bow Street and have them investigate.”

  Bloody hell. “It would be a waste of their time, but I’m sure you’ll do what you must.” He pushed away from the doorway and unfolded his arms. “The funeral furnisher just left. They are sending women to prepare Thea. The service and burial will be Wednesday.”

  Thea’s mother gaped at him. “You planned all that without me?”

  “Thea was my wife, madam. It is my duty to care for her—in death as well as life. I’ve always taken my marriage vows seriously.” He added the last and immediately regretted it. Needling her in this manner was akin to what he’d done to Thea the night before.

  Was it really? Thea had pushed him first, revealing truths he’d long suspected but had never wanted to face. He shook the thought away. He was doing the best he could to keep the rage and hurt inside him under tight rein.

  Mrs. Chamberlain snorted. “You’ve done no such thing. Thea has told me about every one of your indiscretions.”

  Thomas wanted to ask what those could be, but what would be the point? He’d never been unfaithful to his marriage despite ample opportunity and desire. “I’ll leave you alone.” He started to go, but her voice halted him.

  “I will prepare her. Where is her maid?”

  “Sleeping. She was hysterical.”

  Mrs. Chamberlain removed her hat and gloves. “I’ll be staying—until Wednesday. Where is Regan? I wish to see my granddaughter.”

  Thomas turned to face his mother-in-law. “Not today. I won’t have her upset. She’s lost her mother, and she barely understands.”

  “You can’t keep me from seeing her.” She gave him a defiant look.

  He stepped toward her, his lip curling. He didn’t care if he appeared menacing. “I can and I will. Don’t push me. This is my house, and I allow you to remain out of deference to my late wife. I will not, however, permit you to upset my daughter. You may stay. For now. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

  After glowering at her a moment, Thomas turned on his heel and stalked from the room. He nearly ran into Baines, who was lurking in the hall.

  “Mrs. Chamberlain will be staying until the funeral on Wednesday. Please have the guest room prepared.”

  Baines inclined his head. “Of course.”

  “Alert everyone that she is not to see Regan today. And when she does see her tomorrow, I will be present.”

  “I’ll take care of that at once.”

  “She wants to see Spicer when she awakens. Will you take care of that also?”

  Baines nodded. “Is there anything else?”

  “Not at the moment. I’m going upstairs.”

  Thomas went up to the sitting room between his bedchamber and Thea’s. He looked toward the door leading to her room and longed to burn everything inside it. Perhaps not everything. He should probably save some things for Regan. She would want to remember her mother. If she could—it was likely she would grow up not recalling the woman who’d given her life.

  While that made him sad, he was also grateful. There was nothing good for her to remember. He’d save a few mementoes and fabricate stories to go along with them so that Regan would believe her mother had loved her. It was the best he could do.

  Thinking of mementoes, he realized he’d never found the penknife Thea had been clutching last night when she’d come at him on the balcony. She’d aimed the blade at the hollow of his throat. It was why he’d stepped to the side and she’d launched forward over the balcony.

  If he hadn’t moved, she would have sunk the blade into him. He probably wouldn’t have died. But perhaps she wouldn’t have either.

  Was he really telling himself he should have let her stab him? After all the other abuse he’d allowed her to heap upon him the past several years? He picked up a figurine from the writing desk and threw it across the room.

  The second the sheepdog shattered, he regretted the rash action. Self-loathing and fear rose in his throat. He worked so bloody hard to contain his anger.

  He took deep breaths to calm his racing pulse. Turning, he went out to the balcony. The early afternoon was warm, with a few high clouds, one of which was currently blocking the sun. Though he’d looked last night and again this morning, he searched the balcony once more for the penknife. It still wasn’t there.

  He went to the low railing and gazed down at the garden. He’d also searched the cobblestones and the surrounding area, to no avail. It was as if the penknife had disappeared. Perhaps he’d imagined the damn thing.

  Going back inside, he searched the writing desk, which was where she typically kept it and where she’d grabbed it from last night. The knife wasn’t there either.

  He should look in her chamber too, he supposed, but he couldn’t bring himself to go in there. Not today.

  Sadness and weariness settled into his bones. This wasn’t what he’d wanted. He’d married Thea hoping they would have a happy life together, a family full of love. At least he had Regan.

  Clinging to the only beacon of happiness he had—the one that had kept him going the past several years—he went in search of his daughter. She was h
is joy and love, and he would do anything to keep her safe.

  Chapter 2

  The night was clear, with a nearly-full moon shining down into the garden. Thomas looked into the tree, but Miss Whitford wasn’t there. He couldn’t imagine she’d come again tonight, or any night, after what had happened.

  Still, he couldn’t help searching for her. He realized he wanted her to return.

  From the tree, she’d had the perfect position to witness everything that had happened the night before. Nearly everything. She couldn’t have heard what was said before he and Thea had gone out onto the balcony. And she didn’t seem to know that Thea had been holding the penknife.

  Miss Whitford firmly believed he was not to blame.

  She was, of course, wrong. Thomas might not have pushed Thea over the railing, but he’d provoked her rage. Her tragic fall, even if it was accidental, was why it was so important he never lose control, not even for a moment as he’d done earlier when he’d thrown the figurine.

  But you pulled yourself together.

  Nevertheless, look at what had happened to Thea. Thomas felt sick.

  It didn’t help that her mother and maid had spent the afternoon and evening closeted with Thea and were likely commiserating about Thomas’s depravity as well as his responsibility for Thea’s demise. Countless arrangements of flowers had been delivered, all of which had been crammed into the morning room to help stave off the scent of death.

  Baines had told him a short while ago that both women had retired and that Spicer had informed him she would be going to work for Mrs. Chamberlain. Thomas was grateful he wouldn’t have to worry about the maid’s employment.

  He’d be glad when they were both out of his house. That meant Thea would be gone too. The idea of consistent peace was a dream he hadn’t dared. Now, his entire being yearned for it with everything he had.

  A movement in the back corner of the garden drew his attention. A small, black-clad figure strode toward the balcony. Her head tipped up, and their eyes met.

  Wordlessly, she went to the trellis and ascended with the same speed and agility she had the night before. As she climbed over the railing, he noted the curve of her backside and the slope of her hip. When she stepped into the light coming from the windows of the sitting room, he fixed on the dramatic arch of her pale brows, the searing intensity of her hazel eyes, the saucy manner in which her nose turned up at the tip, the enticing bow of her dark pink lips, and the strong jut of her chin. She was a cat, and he briefly wondered if he was her prey.

  “You came back,” he said simply.

  “I had to.”

  “For Ramsgate.”

  She put a hand on her hip. “Did I so much as look toward his house?”

  He nearly smiled, which in itself was a marvel given the past day. “You didn’t appear to. How is it you climb so well?”

  “Dressing like a man helps.” She flashed a quick smile, which revealed dimples in her cheeks. There was joy in this woman, and the glimpse of it nearly drove Thomas to his knees.

  “You didn’t answer my question. While you’re doing that, tell me why you’re dressed like a man.”

  “I can’t very well steal into gardens late at night and watch the Duke of Ramsgate dressed like a woman, particularly since I have to climb a tree to see him.”

  “Thank you. You also didn’t answer why you are spying on him. And don’t tell me you aren’t spying. What you are doing is most definitely spying.”

  She narrowed one eye at him. “You are full of questions this evening. Are you distracting yourself?”

  “Definitely.”

  She exhaled. “I can’t blame you.” She stepped toward him, her features creasing with concern. “How are you?”

  “Horrid. My mother-in-law is here.”

  “Oh dear. You don’t get along?”

  “That’s a nice way of putting it.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’m being uncharitable. The woman has endured much in recent days.”

  “You’re referring to the arrest of her son in addition to her daughter’s death.”

  “You keep up on gossip.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “My sister’s betrothed is the one who arrested Chamberlain.”

  “Your sister is marrying Harry Sheffield?” He was brother to Lord Northwood, with whom Thomas was well acquainted.

  “You are not keeping up on gossip. Which is to be expected.”

  “I rarely do.”

  “You’re better off,” Miss Whitford said. She hesitated before asking, “How is your daughter?”

  “She scarcely understands, which is for the best. Thea wasn’t a particularly, ah, devoted parent.” Indeed, entire days went by when Thea never even visited Regan in the nursery. That disregard was perhaps the primary reason Thomas had grown to loathe her.

  “I’m certain your daughter is quite lucky to have you for a father,” Miss Whitford said with grave confidence—and perhaps just a touch of wistfulness.

  “I’m still not at all certain why you chose to help me instead of fleeing the garden.” Thomas crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the outer wall of the house. “Are you going to tell me, or will you avoid that question too?”

  “I like to be helpful, and you clearly needed help. As you said, your daughter needs a father.”

  He’d had the sense Miss Whitford hadn’t been aware of Regan, but why would she? Miss Whitford had been visiting his garden to survey the duke next door, not him. “How long have you been coming to my garden?”

  “A few weeks.” A faint blush stained the upper regions of her cheeks.

  “I see. The duke must be very important to you.” Thomas pushed away from the wall and dropped his arms to his sides. “If there is any way I can return the great favor you extended me last night, I hope you’ll advise me.” He stepped toward her.

  Her lashes fluttered as she tipped her head up to look at him. The difference in their height was great—she was barely taller than Thea. His stomach turned. He refused to compare them.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. “With the duke, I mean.”

  “He’s my father.” The words tumbled quickly from her mouth. So quickly that he wondered why she’d avoided telling him, for it seemed that was what she’d been doing. Perhaps he’d misunderstood.

  “Oh.” Thomas was at a bit of a loss for words. Why would a young woman have to resort to spying on her father? He could only think of one explanation. “Does he, ah, know you?”

  “He used to.” She cast a frustrated glance over her shoulder toward Ramsgate’s house. “He knew me quite well when I lived with my mother in Bath. He spent a great deal of time with us. He loved my mother. And me.” There was a simple conviction to her words that pierced straight into Thomas’s heart. “My mother became ill, and he stopped visiting. She died when I was eleven. That’s when I was taken to a boarding school.”

  Her eyes widened, and she stared at him in horror. “I shouldn’t have told you any of that,” she whispered. “Not about my father or the school, any of it. Will you please forget I did?”

  There was no way he could. “It seems we both know secrets about each other. I promise not to reveal yours.”

  “I promise the same.” She held out her hand. “A bargain, then?”

  He took her gloved fingers in his, but she withdrew her hand, surprising him. After removing her glove, she pressed her palm to his and clasped her thumb and fingers around him. The feel of her flesh against his made his breath catch. He tried to recall just how long it had been since he’d touched a woman.

  “A bargain.” He quickly let go of her hand. “Why are you watching him?”

  “Because it’s all I have at the moment. I am hopeful he will notice me this season and desire a reconnection.”

  He remembered what she’d told him last night, about her sister, Lady Gresham. If Miss Whitford was a bastard, was Lady Gresham also born on the wrong side of the blanket? Did Ramsgate have two bastard daughters? He was curious
but wouldn’t ask Miss Whitford to divulge more secrets. He doubted her name was even Whitford. He’d caught her slip when she’d started to call herself a different name last night.

  “Miss Whitford, I hope you won’t think me too forward, but I truly meant it when I offered my assistance. I would be happy to help you in any way, and I won’t divulge any of your—or your family’s—secrets. I also won’t judge you.” He was the last person who would hold someone to any kind of standard.

  “Thank you. You are most kind.” She smiled. “Perhaps you can ask me to dance some time.” Her smile evaporated into a grimace. “How obtuse of me. Of course you can’t. You’re in mourning now.”

  “That’s true.” He hadn’t really thought about it. He hadn’t thought past today. “Well, I’m sure there will be a way I can help you. In the meantime, you’re welcome to use my tree.” He gestured toward the garden.

  “You are most accommodating, my lord.”

  “Please call me Rockbourne.” He’d almost said Thomas, but that would have been too forward.

  She nodded. “I did just come tonight to check on you. You won’t mind if I do so again?”

  “I’ll look forward to it, actually.” When was the last time he’d had something to anticipate that didn’t involve reading a story or playing with dolls?

  “Excellent.” She turned and went to climb over the railing. As she held on to the trellis with one hand, she waved at him with the other. “Until next time!”

  “When you explain to me your catlike abilities.”

  She laughed. “There isn’t much to tell. There was a tree in our garden in Bath, and I climbed it almost every day.”

  He suspected there was more to it than that and hoped she would reveal all—someday.

  After descending the trellis, she paused beneath the balcony and looked up at him. “I just thought of something. I am in need of a voucher for Almack’s. If you can help with that…” She winked at him before taking off through the garden.