Lady of Scandal

by Tina Gabrielle

  They stopped at the central area beneath the dome, and Blake pointed to a cherry wood hat rack that spanned its perimeter. “You can always tell the jobbers from the stockbrokers by their headgear. That hat rack is for the jobbers who never wear hats outside since they are constantly walking back and forth from their offices nearby. But the brokers mostly stay on the trading floor and are never without their hats.”

  Victoria found the information fascinating. She had never had contact with a jobber before. She knew their role in the Stock Exchange was critical. Only the broker had contact with the public, but it was the jobber who did the actual buying and selling of the shares behind the scenes.

  “When the broker receives an order from his customer,” Blake explained, “he seeks out the jobber. Contrary to popular belief, the price of shares is not decided by the Stock Exchange, but can be influenced by supply and demand, war, political unrest, and even severe weather conditions.

  “When the broker speaks with the jobber, the broker does not reveal whether he wants to buy or sell and thus the jobber gives two prices; the lower is the buying price and the higher his selling price. The jobber earns money for his services by inflating the price he offers the broker. This is called the jobber’s ‘turn.’”

  Victoria watched, awestruck, as brokers made snap decisions agreeing to prices offered by the jobbers. As far as she could see, business was transacted and shares bought in a matter of seconds.

  No formal documents were signed or exchanged. A jobber would merely scratch a note of the deal in a small notepad he carried in his coat pocket.

  “A verbal contract is sufficient,” Blake explained. “The trade will be verified tomorrow morning by the broker’s clerk at the Exchange Clearing House and the appropriate transfer deeds drawn up. On settlement day, usually a fortnight ahead, the broker pays for the shares. Only after he receives the deed is he paid by the customer. The shares can then be officially filed with the applicable company.”

  A slight attendant with a particularly solemn expression caught Victoria’s eye.

  He had a limp which became more pronounced as he mounted the steps of a rostrum beneath the dome and moved to a podium. The attendant licked dry lips, picked up a hammer and proceeded to rap a wood block three times. Clearing his throat, he cried out, “Gentleman, Mr. Carlton begs to inform the House that he cannot comply with his bargains.”

  The cacophonous noise was instantly stilled. The awkward silence and a sudden tenseness in the room made all the occupants feel as one.

  “Jobbers and brokers must pay on settlement day. It does not matter the reasons their investors have not paid, even if they are bankrupt,” Blake whispered in her ear. “Thus, they do not look kindly upon defaulters.”

  The attendant climbed down the steps in an awkward manner, all eyes in the room following, and pinned a sheet of yellow paper on a cork board mounted behind the rostrum.

  Victoria suspected the yellow paper declared Mr. Carlton a defaulter who was now expelled from the Exchange.

  A moment later, the crowd went about its business, the volume returning to its previously noisy level as if nothing untoward had occurred.

  Blake and Victoria resumed their walk around the perimeter, and Victoria continued to observe the people conduct their business.

  An outsider viewing the scene might consider the methods of the brokers and jobbers haphazard, inefficient, almost reckless. But as she watched them conduct their transactions, she thought it an artful dance, well choreographed, almost graceful.

  Blake lowered his mouth to her ear and raised his voice to be heard above the noise. “Jobbers deal in specific markets. The markets are stationed in certain vicinities on the trading floor. See if you can identify them as we pass by.”

  Of course, she thought. How efficient for the jobbers to trade in certain stocks and have their own spots on the floor. That way, brokers wouldn’t waste time soliciting the wrong people.

  Victoria kept her ears open, and sure enough, she overheard the jobbers buying and selling different types of goods.

  They strolled past those specializing in the West India trade companies, haggling over share prices based on the latest sugar, rum and coffee costs. Then there were those dealing in the Russian and Baltic trade with timber, oil, hemp and tallow. Opposite these were jobbers specializing in the East India Company and its competitors and those dispensing goods from the Americas.

  She stared agog. “The place appears as disorderly as a city tavern on a busy Saturday night, but there is a rigid structure behind it, isn’t there?”

  Blake flashed a white smile, and Victoria’s heart skipped a beat at his attractiveness.

  “It’s as well planned as an experienced general’s battlefield and runs smoother than the Regent governs England,” he said.

  “Comparing it to the Regent’s ability isn’t much of a compliment.”

  Blake arched an eyebrow at her treasonous remark. “What I mean to say is that the Exchange runs efficiently and smoothly.”

  Victoria nodded, her lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile. She knew Blake had no love for Prinny.

  A man carrying a tall stack of papers crossed directly in front of her. Victoria jerked back to avoid colliding with him. A jobber beside her was not so observant and bumped into the oblivious man. Papers flew through the air like New Year’s confetti.

  The man yelped and dropped to his knees, scrambling to gather his lost stack. His ink-stained fingers were a blur as he rushed to pluck the pages from the floor.

  Victoria suspected he was a clerk whose sole duty was to record transfers all day, a mundane task.

  No one paid the struggling clerk the slightest attention and went about their business, stepping on the papers as they passed by.

  “Oh, my,” Victoria said, “will no one help him?”

  “I’m afraid for all its glory, the people that work here care naught about a clumsy clerk. They are too busy making money to assist one another.”

  “How awful!”

  Victoria bent down, reaching for a loose sheet, intent on helping the clerk. She panicked when a group walked by, filling the space, nearly trampling her.

  Blake grabbed a fistful of her waistcoat from behind and yanked her to her feet. “Be careful,” he warned. “There’s an old saying here: don’t get in the way of a businessman and his money. People here can be cutthroat.”

  Immediately, Victoria thought of her father and Jacob Hobbs. Either would step on the clerk’s hands before helping him. The notion to aid someone less fortunate wouldn’t enter their self-absorbed brains.

  “Shall we continue?” Blake asked, studying her face.

  She hadn’t realized she had stopped, her lips pursed as she thought of her father and Hobbs.

  “Of course,” she replied, forcing a smile. She refused to allow thoughts of home to sour her previously jubilant mood.

  When they finished, and she had seen everything she had ever dreamed of seeing there, Blake escorted her back through the swinging doors into the lobby.

  She felt a sense of loss, knowing she would never again experience what she just had. At the same time, she was overwhelmed with gratitude for what Blake had done for her.

  She maintained appearances until she sat across from him in his crested coach. Waiting until the footman shut the padded door and they were shielded from the rest of the world, she leaned toward him and placed a hand on his knee. “Thank you for today. You brought my most vivid fantasy to life.”

  “Just as you did mine last night,” he murmured, reaching out to pluck her hat from her head.

  Freed from restraint, thick waves of ebony hair tumbled across her shoulders and cascaded down her back.

  Victoria’s scalp had begun to itch beneath the snug hat, and she was glad to have it off. She shook her head and ran her fingers through her unruly curls.

  Blake’s blue eyes darkened and, this time, she recognized the desire that burned within their depths.

 
“Do you have any idea how luscious you look in breeches?” he asked, his voice husky, earthy.

  The question should have shocked her as it would have any proper English lady, but she was no longer one of those females. A sliver of warmth rushed through her breasts and belly.

  “I could see the outline of your slender legs, and when you bent over to help that clumsy clerk…I had to restrain myself from touching you.”

  She gasped at his erotic words. “If my appearance caused such a reaction, then maybe others knew of my gender.”

  “No. One sees only what one expects to see, and none would have suspected a woman amongst them. Only I knew the truth, and it has been near torture having you beside me without touching you. I’ve decided I can wait no longer.”

  In a flash, he swept her from her seat and settled her on his lap.

  Just like last time, she thought. Only now I know what pleasure can be found in his arms, and he has me quivering with anticipation.

  Their lips met in a fierce kiss, tongues exploring as greedily as their roaming hands through the confines of their clothing.

  The tight, thin material of her breeches allowed her to feel the full extent of his arousal. She rubbed her bum cheeks against his hardness, and he groaned.

  “Victoria.” The word wrapped around her like a caress. His large hands encircled her waist and lifted her up. “Straddle me.”

  Without hesitation, she wrapped her legs around his waist and lowered herself. The breeches allowed her to spread her legs, and she took full advantage, squeezing her thighs to hold him close.

  “You’ll drive me crazy,” he moaned.

  “Good,” she teased. “’Tis only fair.”

  Running her fingers through his silky black hair, she leaned forward and kissed him. Even though her legs and feet were wedged awkwardly against the leather bench, she refused to let that prevent her from touching him.

  With a hand low on her bottom, Blake drew her close. The kiss escalated from playfulness to fiery passion in mere seconds. The interior of the coach grew hot and steamy, and his cotton shirt grew damp beneath her hands.

  He plucked at the buttons of her breeches, then at the tie of her drawers, tugging and pulling until the material parted in a gaping V. He banged his elbow against the side of the coach and swore as he wrestled with her clothing, but he did not hesitate in his movements.

  “I never knew masculine attire could be so arousing.” He cupped her exposed mons, and the heat from his palm melted her body against his. His fingers threaded through her tight curls and found her aching cleft. He stroked her sensitive bud until she was slick with desire.

  Passion pounded the blood through her heart, chest and head. Moaning against his lips, she abandoned herself to his skillful hands.

  “I need you now, Victoria. I need to be inside you.”

  “Yesss,” she breathed. “Oh, yes.”

  With trembling hands, he tugged at her breeches, but because she still straddled him, they would not slide down far enough.

  “Rise up on your knees,” he commanded, his voice rough with need.

  She obeyed, and with considerable effort inside the confines of the coach, her breeches, drawers and stockings were drawn off and haphazardly discarded onto the opposite bench. She still wore her shirt, waistcoat and jacket.

  Together they reached for the buttons on his trousers, and his manhood was freed to her hungry gaze. The space was too confining to remove his trousers altogether, and their need was too great to bother.

  She reached for him herself, marveling in the contrasts of his hardness and length and the satiny texture of his marble-hard tip. As she stroked him, a pearly drop of liquid appeared on the head, and she swirled it with her thumb.

  “Victoria,” he groaned. “I’ll spill.”

  Instinctively, she knew what they both craved. Victoria straddled him again, naked from the waist down, and slowly lowered herself upon him.

  He hissed when her hot cleft first touched the tip of his arousal.

  She met his fierce gaze as inch by delicious inch she encompassed his throbbing manhood into her hot sheath. His hardness electrified her, and her desire flowed like warm honey. She writhed on top of him, and Blake moaned at the slow, teasing movement.

  He grasped her hips and taught her how to ride him and give them both pleasure. She was quick to learn, soon meeting him thrust for thrust, tightening her thigh muscles around him.

  Sensation built upon sensation until reality ebbed away. Roused to the peak of desire, a cry of ecstasy slipped through her lips as she was hurled beyond the point of return.

  Blake went rigid with her cry, his expression taut with need, as he spurt his seed inside her. For a heartbeat, she sensed his defenselessness, and she gripped his shoulders, heart lurching as he found his release.

  Victoria collapsed on top of him, gasping for air, her lips pressed against the glistening flesh of his throat.

  Blake made no move to slip out of her body, his hands tracing the lines of her back and stroking her hair. Gradually she became aware of the cramped muscles in her spread thighs and hips. The steamy air inside the coach made it difficult to breathe, but she loved the closeness.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he murmured against her neck.

  You can love me like I love you.

  The unspoken thought jolted her, then filled her with despair. She bit her lip until it throbbed like her pulse.

  When had she fallen in love with Blake Mallorey?

  She had always been enamored of him, but that had been a girlish infatuation. Hadn’t it? When had it turned into a woman’s love? What made her think, even in her wildest fantasies, that this man—who had been nothing but forthright in his demands for revenge—could love her?

  If nothing else, she had never lied to herself. The moment she had decided to share his bed, she had known there was no future for them together. She had wanted to experience the man, and she had.

  She pushed aside the anguish that hovered over her heart.

  The carriage hit a large rut in the road, and they bumped heads. Laughing like children, they rubbed their temples and reached for their clothes.

  In that instant she knew that every moment with Blake was precious, and she would continue to experience all she could before returning to her father’s home and her former life.

  Chapter 25

  Robert Banks Jenkinson, Second Earl of Liverpool and First Lord of the Treasury, resided at 10 Downing Street. Blake had previously met with Jenkinson at his business offices, but this was Blake’s first visit to the public official’s private residence.

  Less than three months ago, Blake would never have dreamed that he would be making today’s visit. He would have bet his entire fortune against it. But that was before Victoria had entered his life…had changed his plans.

  A dour-faced butler escorted Blake to a parlor to wait. Blake was struck by the room’s lack of opulence. With no artwork on the walls and its sturdy furnishings, the parlor was as unassuming as any commoner’s. Blake’s admiration for Jenkinson grew. The treasurer was an ethical and hardworking public servant with no need for false pretenses.

  Jenkinson entered the room and extended a hand in greeting. A tall, thin man with an air of seriousness, he had deep frown lines between his brows, a testament to his stressful position.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Ravenspear,” Jenkinson said. “I was surprised to see you on my appointment list this morning. My financial secretary, William Padgett, said you had important business to discuss.”

  Blake was not fooled by Jenkinson’s apparent innocence as to the reason for his visit.

  “Lord Treasurer, I trust Mr. Padgett informed you that one of your commissioners has helped himself to the Regent’s pot of gold,” Blake said.

  Jenkinson’s brows furrowed further, a feat Blake had thought impossible.

  “Which commissioner do you speak of? There are four others on my commission other than Nicholas Vansittart, my Chancel
lor of the Exchequer.”

  Blake knew Jenkinson was testing him. He looked the older man squarely in the eye. “I speak of Junior Lord Commissioner Charles Ashton. I suspect Mr. Padgett informed you of Ashton’s covert activities as soon as they had occurred.”

  “And who informed you, Lord Ravenspear?”

  “I am heavily invested in Treasury bonds, and I do not want an internal scandal to cause my investments to plummet.” Blake knew he failed to directly answer Jenkinson’s question, but he was unwilling to reveal that William Padgett was Blake’s spy as well as Jenkinson’s financial secretary and chief assistant.

  “You are an interesting man,” Jenkinson said. “My instincts tell me you are not here to try to bribe me for money or political gain. Then why?”

  “I assume a magistrate has not issued a warrant for Commissioner Ashton’s arrest because you desire to keep the thefts private. The reputation of the Treasury Commission is at stake, and the Regent must seek to avoid a public spectacle like a trial. Such would result in the people’s distrust of one of the most important branches of the government.”

  The shrewd Lord Treasurer looked at Blake with open interest. “What are you suggesting, Lord Ravenspear?”

  “That it is in the best interest of the Regent for the missing money to be returned to the Treasury without disclosing any information to the public. Commissioner Ashton can then be disciplined and removed from his position privately, and the integrity of the government preserved.”

  “Your logic is most sound, Lord Ravenspear,” Jenkinson said, “but how do you propose to achieve such lofty goals?”

  “If Commissioner Ashton was led to believe you suspected his thefts, he would be forced to flee London or stand trial for treason. He would undoubtedly choose to abandon his country and take his stash of monies with him. If you had him followed, you could easily detain him and retrieve the money. A public scandal would be avoided.”

  Blake knew the moment Jenkinson agreed to his plan. The man’s dark eyes sharpened, and then he nodded his head in approval.