Lady of Scandal

by Tina Gabrielle

  Her fingers brushed against a hairpin, and she felt a rush of excitement as a solution came to mind. Plucking the pin from her hair, she stuck it in the lock and went to work.

  Within seconds the lock sprung free and the drawer rolled open.

  It was a large drawer, more than a foot deep and two feet long. Rows of brown folders, with hand-printed tabs identifying the contents of each, were filed in alphabetical order.

  She recognized Justin Woodward’s meticulous block handwriting on the tabs, each letter capitalized in bold black ink. Every piece of paper in the folders was clean, unwrinkled and stacked evenly. Not an edge was curled or earmarked.

  She stared in amazement. It seemed the loyal and intelligent Mr. Woodward wore many hats—Blake’s man of affairs, bookkeeper, accountant, friend and confidant being just a few.

  Starting at the letter A and quickly thumbing through the alphabet, Victoria was amazed at the vast array of stocks Blake owned and the numerous lucrative businesses he had started.

  He owned stock in Russian and Baltic companies which imported timber, oil, tallow, hemp and seeds. He imported wines from Southern Europe, mahogany from West Africa, and rare carpets from Armenia, India, Persia and China. He was a member of the Society of Lloyd’s which collectively underwrote marine insurance. He had an arrangement with the East India Company to store goods in his riverside warehouses—tea from India and Ceylon, pepper, snuff, saltpeter, furniture made from exotic woods, embroidered hangings, ivory, silk, brocades, arrack, spices, cloves, nutmeg and mangoes. There were also receipts for purchased Treasury bonds—a stack two inches thick.

  The list went on. Blake even owned old ships that sailed to Barbados and Virginia with any cargo they had need of.

  To the inexperienced eye, his investment choices seemed haphazard—a mix of small and large corporations, with a sprinkling of bonds.

  He was exceptionally diversified, and she wondered at his strategy. She had thought the extent of his business involved sugar, rum and coffee from the West Indies. But the more she studied his records, it became clear that Blake Mallorey may have earned his initial money in the Indies, but that he had amassed his fortune by more diversified means.

  Her father’s and Jacob Hobbs’s investment plans were much simpler. Based on the current market, they would pick a stock that was presently a moneymaker, and sink all their capital into it in order to gain as much profit as quickly as possible.

  The concern with such tactics was that one had to be ahead of other investors in anticipating the peak before the stock became inflated and its value depreciated before it could be sold. Their methods involved high risk but high profit as well, if one predicted the market accurately.

  Victoria had long suspected that her father’s position on the Treasury Commission ensured him access to confidential financial information that other members of the Exchange lacked. She knew that Charles Ashton would not hesitate to use such information to make money—even if he had taken an oath of office not to do so.

  Unlike her father’s investment, many of Blake’s appeared to yield relatively low profits initially but had the potential for huge returns.

  Flipping open files, Victoria discovered numerous stock picks which had enormous monetary returns. The figures were astounding, proving once again that her father’s debt was a measly sum, a drop in the bucket for the fabulously rich Earl of Ravenspear.

  A pen and piece of paper caught Victoria’s eye. She dipped the quill in an inkwell and set to furiously jotting down the stocks Blake had owned for more than a year. These were his income producers—his bread and butter. Next, she recorded his newest investments—some subsidiaries of existing corporations—all with a higher level of risk.

  One of Blake’s companies caught her eye, initially because of its unusual name, Illusory Enterprises, but then because of its primary product.

  High-pressure steam engines.

  Victoria had read about this revolutionary new technology in the The Morning Post and The Times over a year ago. She had been surprised when her father and Jacob Hobbs had purchased the sole manufacturer in all of England of certain parts for such engines.

  Her memories of Hobbs bragging about such a fact were pure and clear.

  So where was Blake getting his parts?

  An inkling of suspicion heightened her senses.

  The second hand of the longcase clock ticked on, an ever-nagging reminder of her limited time. But with abrupt clarity, she knew she had stumbled onto something important.

  Shifting through a stack of invoices, her hands so sweaty now she feared leaving splotches on the paper, she finally found what she was searching for.

  There, in the purchase column were prior orders for high-pressure steel pistons from her father and Jacob to Illusory Enterprises.

  Blake was buying parts from her father and Jacob without their knowledge!

  It was then that the real purpose behind the subsidiary name, Illusory Enterprises, became clear. It was just an illusion to trick her father into selling Blake what he needed most. She should be offended, but instead was awed by Ravenspear’s creativity and craftiness.

  Heavy footsteps down the hall caused warning spasms of alarm to erupt within her. Thrusting the invoices back in their file as orderly as her shaking hands would allow, Victoria pushed the file down in place and slammed the drawer shut. She folded the piece of paper and thrust it in her skirt pocket.

  As she hurried around the desk, the library door opened.

  Blake entered, taking several strides forward before noticing Victoria standing in the middle of the room.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  His speech was slurred. His normally immaculate attire was in disarray. The jacket and cravat were gone, and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the corded muscles of his throat and mat of hair on his chest. His dark hair was ruffled as if he had run his fingers through it over and over, and his normally piercing blue eyes were bloodshot and red as if he had spent a month in a smoky pub.

  Victoria’s nerves were so frayed that it took her a moment to comprehend that Blake Mallorey was stinking drunk.

  “Well?” he asked.

  At his gruff tone, she instinctively took a step back. “I…I came here to read…to be alone.”

  Blake swaggered forth. “Then you should have chosen your own bedroom, my dear. There isn’t a more quiet or lonely chamber in this entire mansion.”

  Standing less than an arm’s length away, he reeked of alcohol and cynicism.

  “Is your sarcasm necessary?” Victoria raised her chin a notch and faced him squarely with false bravado.

  She was perspiring as if she had run the perimeter of Rosewood at full speed. The incriminating paper she carried felt like it had burned a hole through her skirt pocket and singed the flesh at her waist with a capital T for thief. Her composure, which she usually prided herself on, was now a fragile shell around her. Her stomach churned with anxiety from the need to escape from his disturbing presence before her crime was discovered.

  “I apologize, then, if I disturbed your solitude. But we ran out of brandy,” Blake said.

  He bowed mockingly, then went to a tall cabinet, opened the doors and withdrew a crystal decanter full of amber-colored alcohol.

  He turned around, brandy in hand, and walked behind a leather chair. He rested his forearms on the back of the hammerhead chair, leaning forward, letting it support his upper body. The decanter dangled from his right hand, the liquor sloshing within it. His tailored cotton shirt, no longer starched stiff, was stretched tightly across his broad shoulders and emphasized his sinewy strength.

  He held up the decanter. “The closest stash to my room, you see.”

  She shifted uneasily from one foot to the other before finding her voice. “Now that you’ve found me, I’ll leave you to your drink.” She turned to escape.

  “Wait.”

  Victoria’s hand froze before it could touch the doorknob
.

  “Have a drink with me.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Just one drink.”

  She turned to face him. He held up two glasses, and she wondered how he could move so swiftly, as intoxicated as he was.

  Blake poured her two fingers’ worth and filled his glass to the rim.

  Victoria hesitantly accepted the drink.

  “A toast,” he said, raising his glass.

  “There’s nothing to celebrate.”

  Glassy blue eyes shone like cobalt. “Of course there is. What about my rescuing you from the overly amorous Mr. St. Bride?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “I’d rather not drink to that.”

  “Then what?”

  “A truce,” she offered expectantly.

  “Ah. You’d prefer to forget what was said this afternoon and go back to the way things were between us.”

  “Is that such a bad idea? If we are to spend a year under the same roof, can we at least be civil?”

  “Civil?” he repeated, arching a dark brow. “Just splendid,” he said in a voice that suggested he was anything but pleased. Some of the alcohol from his glass spilled onto his lace cuff, staining the white fabric. Blake was oblivious as he finished the brandy in one swallow.

  Mimicking his actions, Victoria raised her glass to her lips and swallowed. The potent alcohol burned her throat and every inch of her esophagus, all the way down to her stomach, and she coughed. The effect was instantaneous, warming her blood and taking the edge off her frayed nerves.

  Blake laughed. Stepping close, he plucked the empty glass from her hand and set both his and hers on the end table. Returning to her side, his gaze dropped to her mouth, and his eyes darkened. He raised a finger to trace her full bottom lip.

  “Although I drank to your suggestion, I can think of many other words to describe what I’d prefer our relationship to be other than civil.”

  The pad of his forefinger on her mouth made her pulse skitter alarmingly. He stood so close she could feel the heat from his body. Her fingers ached to stretch forth and caress his lips. Instead, she grasped his wrist and removed his hand.

  “Stop.”

  His eyes shuttered and his expression hardened. “Unfortunately for you, there is no going back, no possible truce. What was said, in anger or not, was the truth. You have succeeded in reminding me I have been delinquent in carrying out my plans.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been far too lenient for too long. Pack your bags, my dear. We’re returning to London.”

  Chapter 20

  Footsteps echoed down the city street. Breathing heavily, Spencer turned down a dark alley and spurted recklessly forward.

  His eyes were blinded by the darkness, for the light from the city gas lamps did not illuminate the narrow alley. He felt his way along the wall’s bricks as fast as he dared, scratching his hands on the rough surface as he moved.

  He ran headlong into a solid object, and pain burst through his skull like a firecracker. Precious seconds passed before he realized he had collided with a large iron box. The foul smell of rubbish that assaulted his nostrils alerted him that he had smashed into a trash receptacle for the nearby building’s tenants.

  Gasping, he rested his hand against the box until his head cleared.

  Footsteps splashed through a puddle at the entrance to the alley, then stopped.

  Panic welled in his throat. His pursuer suspected he was in the alley.

  There was nowhere left to run. He had to act fast.

  Without further thought, Spencer scrambled into the iron box and buried himself in the refuse.

  The stench was overpowering. Bile rose up in his throat, and he gagged. He thrust his fist in his mouth and bit down hard on his knuckles to prevent himself from vomiting and alerting his pursuer to his location. All manner of putrefaction touched his skin—rotten food, sewage and even a decomposing dog.

  The scrape of booted feet came close, and then stopped. Two men. Slayer’s enforcers.

  Spencer ceased to breathe. He wondered wildly how he had gotten himself in this predicament. He had felt confident when he had entered the Cock and Bull and struck a deal with Slayer. But Spencer had lost heavily at the tables that night. His losses had been so sweeping and great that he had later suspected Slayer had stacked the deck.

  Ever since that night, Spencer had been looking over his shoulder—for as soon as he had failed to make Slayer’s payments, including the outrageous interest, Slayer had sent his lackeys after him.

  Slayer’s message was clear: pay up or he would take in flesh and blood what was owed him.

  Spencer’s legs became numb in the cramped space. His misery was like a steel weight crushing his chest. The only person he could confide in, who could help him, was out of reach to him.

  Vicki. For the first time in his miserable life, he had tried to help her, and he had once again made a mess of things.

  One of Slayer’s men cursed. “The weasel got away.”

  “He must have turned down another alley,” a gruff voice answered.

  “We’ll find ’im, we will. He may be the commissioner’s son, but he don’t have much of a brain.”

  “Aye, I’m lookin’ forward to beating the rat to a bloody pulp, I am.”

  Coarse laughter echoed off the alley walls, and then the departing footsteps of the two men.

  Heart beating frantically, Spencer eased his cramped limbs out of the receptacle. Malodorous waste clung to his hair, face and clothes.

  He wondered how long he had to live.

  I cannot believe I’m back in London.

  Victoria looked out the window at the people scurrying about the street. A powerful storm was brewing, and the crowd below rushed about for cover. The wind howled, blowing leaves from trees and swirling debris from the street into the faces of pedestrians. Well-dressed men clutched the collars of their frock coats tight about their necks in an effort to keep the wind at bay. Those with tall-crowned hats pulled their curled brims down over their ears to shield their ruddy faces.

  As the first fat raindrops fell from the sky, the gas lamps hissed and steamed in the street like angry dragons.

  Despite the warmth and dry air inside the room, Victoria rubbed the goose flesh on her arms. Stepping away from the window, she let the lace curtains fall back into place.

  She was in Blake’s London town house on St. James Street. The popular address, as attested by the view from the street, was mostly inhabited by wealthy bachelors.

  All one had to do was drive by to see the establishments that lined the street—White’s, Brook’s and Boodle’s being the most famous. So much was it a male magnet, that if a woman was observed in an open carriage or walking along St. James after dusk, she was labeled of questionable character.

  Victoria dared not analyze the real reason Blake had brought her here.

  Wandering about the room, she studied her surroundings. Gone was the delicate rose-hued wallpaper with matching bedspread and quilt. Her new bedroom was decorated in peach tones with dark mahogany furniture. A large four poster with a superfine gauze canopy dominated the room. On one side of a fireplace was a tall chest of drawers and on the other side stood a sturdy wardrobe. Through a set of double doors was a small sitting room.

  It was tastefully done, and Victoria could find no fault with her accommodations. But at the same time, the dark, bold furniture was obviously masculine and, in contrast, the peachy color very feminine.

  The room smelled and appeared freshly painted. Victoria could imagine the servants scurrying about in haste to transform a masculine guestroom into a suitable lady’s suite in order to meet their master’s demands on short notice.

  It was clear that Blake’s bringing her here was not expected or planned.

  Slipping from her room, she stopped to listen. She hadn’t seen Blake or Justin since her arrival this morning. Back at Rosewood, Blake had advised her that she would be traveling to London alone and that
he would arrive by separate coach thereafter. He had been short with her since their quarrel at Lady Devon’s. Their altercation in the library had not improved his mood.

  She had no desire to run into him, and she looked about the empty hallway to ensure she was alone.

  Her stomach growled noisily, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since leaving Rosewood. Creeping down the hall, she descended the grand staircase to the main floor before Mr. Kent, Blake’s ever-present butler, intercepted her.

  “Would you care for luncheon, Miss Ashton?” Mr. Kent asked.

  Victoria’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. Cheeks flushing, she said, “Lunch sounds lovely.”

  The butler nodded and motioned for her to follow. “This way, Miss Ashton.”

  Mr. Kent was tall and paper thin, with a perpetual bloodhound expression, and had impeccable manners and a discreet nature, which was an invaluable characteristic for a bachelor’s butler. He had been respectful since her arrival, seeing to her every need.

  If he was curious about an unmarried lady’s presence in the household, he did not show it. Mr. Kent’s polite demeanor reminded her of Mrs. Smith, Rosewood’s heavyset housekeeper, and Victoria wondered what orders Blake had given the head of both households.

  She followed the butler through the vestibule just as the front door burst open, and a gust of wind blew loose tendrils of hair in her face.

  “What a God-awful storm.” Blake’s voice boomed above the howling wind.

  Brushing her hair from her eyes, Victoria saw Blake and Justin, cloaks billowing around them, dripping wet in the entryway.

  Mr. Kent rushed forward to close the heavy door. “It’s wonderful to see you back, my lord.” Taking Blake’s and Justin’s sodden cloaks, Kent continued, “And you as well, Mr. Woodward. Will you be spending the night?”

  “Just tonight,” Justin said.

  It was then that Blake noticed Victoria standing behind Mr. Kent. A fleeting expression of relief crossed his face before the corners of his mouth curved into a smile.

  Why? Did he think she would have fled to her father’s home the moment she returned to London?