How to Survive a Scandal

by Samara Parish

  Benedict placed a chipped cup in front of Amelia. Without saucer or sugar or spoon. Amelia added a tea set to her mental list of things to purchase when she was next in London.

  Fiona seemed unperturbed by the lack of basic provisions, lifting her tea and cupping it in her hands to inhale the steam. Her nails were cut short, and there was a long, thin scar that ran across the back of her hand. The smattering of freckles across them matched the freckles across her nose and cheeks. She was quite pretty, in a singular way. Odd, to be wearing a man’s cuffed shirt and plain morning coat, but Amelia could imagine she’d be striking in a light blue dress with her hair pinned up.

  Was she eccentric by choice or because life had left her few other options? If it were the latter, perhaps Amelia could help.

  “Tell me more about what you do,” Amelia asked. “Benedict says that your project is unrelated to his engine.” Amelia picked up her cup, pretending its faults went unnoticed.

  Benedict took the seat next to her. His shoulder brushed against hers, creating a lovely friction that sent sparks twirling down her arm.

  There was a long second of hesitation before Fiona answered. “I’m working on something that will make lighting fires easier. The latest prototype has been quite successful. It needs a few small modifications, but we hope to have further financial backing to mass produce it.”

  “Why outside backing?” As far as Amelia knew, Benedict had money to spare.

  “A London backer will also come with London connections that he”—Fiona tilted her head toward Benedict—“refuses to make. The product is aimed at wealthier households so those connections could be useful.”

  That made sense. Amelia could think of several ways that a member of the ton could influence potential distributors. There were ways that she could influence distributors—assuming she could reestablish the significance she’d had prior to her marriage.

  Had Benedict not considered her at all in his business planning?

  “I’ll try to look past your assumption that he hasn’t just made a very strong London connection and instead simply ask if I can help.”

  Fiona finished off her tea in one swallow. “Can you make the Pearson Group respond to letters with less than a month’s delay? They want us to hand over the designs so they can get cracking on development, but they have yet to hand over any money.”

  “The Pearson Group? The same Pearson Group that was selling shares in the Dallah Coffee Company last year?” Amelia asked.

  Fiona looked at her, surprised. “The very one.”

  “Goodness, don’t give them anything until you see the cash. Lord Easton has no blunt. I removed him from the List of Eligible Bachelors last Season when it became apparent that he needed an heiress, any heiress. Even an American one.” She shuddered.

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?” Benedict asked, as if Lord Easton had been a topic of breakfast conversation.

  “Because you’ve shown such interest in the goings-on of society,” she drawled. “In fact, I think your very words were ‘Amelia, do you expect me to feign interest in this?’”

  Fiona scrambled for notepaper, grabbing a quill and ink. “Tell me more,” she said. “Tell me everything you know.”

  Benedict held the door while the two women clasped hands. When Amelia suggested Fiona pay her a social call and his business associate agreed, he had a momentary sense that the world was tilting. Amelia seemed to be altering every aspect of his life.

  “How does a woman get to be a chemist, inventor, whatever she is?” Amelia asked as they descended the stairs.

  “That’s her story to tell, when she’s ready.” Fiona’s past had been as difficult as his own—more so, potentially. It was no wonder she was determined to create independent wealth.

  “Well, that sounds intriguing. But honestly, I had the best education a woman could have, and I don’t understand a single thing in that chaotic stack of papers. How did she learn it?”

  “Ah. She started here scrubbing the floors. John caught her reading one of his scientific treatises and decided that raw talent should be nurtured. Did you have fun today?” They reached the bottom of the stairs, and she looked up at him.

  “You know, I really did. Thank you.”

  “You were very helpful up there.”

  “Truly?” she asked. “I’m so glad.” She was more satisfied than he’d ever seen her. Even more than when she’d won last week’s argument about buying a new piano.

  “You know, you can visit here any time.”

  She ran a gloved finger down the banister, wrinkling her nose at the layer of soot against the satin. “I think I will. You clearly need someone in charge of cleaning and organization.” She turned to him. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

  The thought of anyone coming into the firm and making changes made him uncomfortable. But he had wanted to engage her with his life, and he could hardly back out now because it wasn’t how he’d imagined.

  “Of course. I can’t promise there will be much for you to do, but I’ll enjoy seeing you during the day.”

  Benedict nodded at the men they passed as they left the building.

  “They enjoy working for you,” Amelia murmured as the men nodded back. “And they’re proud of what they do.”

  “They simply value hard work and know what they’re doing makes a difference.”

  “I think you’re underestimating your role in making their lives feel meaningful.” Amelia put a hand on his arm, stilling them for a minute with a smile that was completely sincere. And it made his stomach flip flop.

  He coughed to move the moment along. “Thank you.”

  But he couldn’t help the giddy grin he wore all the way into town.

  Chapter 13

  Something was wrong. Amelia and Benedict had spent the better part of an hour looking at ribbons, fabrics, hats, and fake flowers. Normally this would not be an issue—she had been known to spend entire days shopping—but that was in London, where she’d had a plethora of shops at her disposal. Abingdale had one dressmaker and a general store, manned by a crotchety storekeeper who looked very suspicious at the amount of time they had spent pressing different colored ribbons against her hair.

  And they had yet to argue.

  Benedict just would not crack.

  She had been pleasantly surprised to discover their day included a shopping trip. The slight flutter she felt at the thought of her husband courting her had mixed with amusement at the mental image of him engaging in such girlish activity. She’d guessed it would take ten minutes before he threw up his hands in disgust. Instead he nodded, feigned interest in the debate about pale blue or robin’s egg blue, and even had an opinion about which colors best suited her complexion.

  Insufferable man.

  He stood there with a smile on his face, far too pleasant and too handsome for her liking. Gone was his usual day gear of dark, heavy woolen breeches, rough-spun shirt, and patched coat. Polished tan hessians replaced his usual scuffed and mud-covered boots. They were paired with stockings, breeches of a light cream, braces, a fine shirt, and a clean, well-made morning coat. His hair was brushed and neatly pulled back. In the shaft of afternoon sunlight that streamed through the dusty window, it looked like burnished gold.

  “Shall we just take one of everything?” he said. “Except for that puce-colored ribbon. That’s horrid.”

  She blew a small strand of hair from her face. “I suppose so.”

  As Benedict piled the ribbons into the basket, Amelia strolled to the shelf of books, tucking three under her arm. She didn’t stop to look at the titles, just moved quickly. She’d read all of four novels. It would be deuced bad luck for one of these three to be the same.

  She shifted to the side and pretended to browse.

  “Find anything that caught your eye?” His breath was hot on her neck. He stood so close that she could feel the heat of him through her pelisse. She looked at the storekeeper. Thankfully his attention was elsewhere.
/>   She turned, keen to keep the books out of sight.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Just this.” She grabbed the nearest thing off the shelf and dropped it into the basket he was carrying. Heavens, a musket. What would he think of that?

  “Nothing to add to the reading material under your bed?”

  Amelia flushed. “That’s an absurd accusation.”

  Benedict winked and took the books from her. “Relax, princess. Your secret is safe with me.”

  Shopping gave way to luncheon. Amelia stood at the steps of the Bull and Whistle with Benedict at her back. “Ladies don’t go to places like this.” Indeed, they didn’t get within ten feet of one on purpose.

  “This lady will. Courage.”

  The teasing needled. No one had dared call her lily-livered before. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded her head. “Fine, let’s go.”

  The pub’s small windows let very little light through, so despite the early day, it was dark but for the fireplaces at both ends and the thick, stub-like candles burning behind the bar and on every other table, giving off a stream of black soot.

  She stopped dead in the doorway. The men inside were grizzled with unkempt whiskers, their hair long and greasy, their clothes wrinkled and sporting a myriad of stains.

  Benedict nudged her forward. She kept her head held high as they walked the length of the room to the chairs closest to the fireplace. With a critical stare at the cushion, she sniffed and perched on the very edge. Heaven knew what grime she was sitting on.

  A buxom barmaid with an obscenely low-cut dress came over to them. She lavished Benedict with a sickly-sweet smile, leaning over to brush non-existent dirt from his shoulder, her bosoms practically falling into his lap as she did so.

  With the girl’s fleshy bottom in her face, Amelia rolled her eyes.

  Benedict caught the look and grinned.

  “Marriage has made you a busy man,” the barmaid said. “We never see you anymore.” The girl pouted, her bottom lip sticking out like the nouveau riche at Almack’s.

  “Well, you’re seeing me now. Lady Amelia, may I present Edwina Merryman. Edwina, my wife, Lady Amelia.”

  The buxom girl turned and ran a slow gaze over Amelia, from her fur-trimmed slippers, up her heavily embroidered brocade pelisse, to the gold-shot ribbon at her throat.

  When she reached Amelia’s eyes, she flinched. There was a reason Amelia had been the second most terrifying unmarried lady of the ton. A simple arched brow could be more cutting than a dozen words if one practiced. Even a cow herder from the back end of nowhere knew what that look meant.

  Benedict cleared his throat. “Two ales and the usual for lunch please, Winny.”

  With a small sniff, the barmaid left, but her walk back to the bar was at a much faster clip than her earlier saunter over.

  “Ale?” Surely he was teasing her. He might not move in her circles, but everyone knew that ladies drank orgeat. Madeira if they needed something stronger. Port only if the men weren’t home and wouldn’t notice.

  Benedict’s smile held a deliberate challenge. “There’s a first time for everything. Be brave.” He lounged back in his chair, as if he were perfectly at home in this den of tawdriness.

  Amelia remained upright with as little contact with the furnishings as possible. “I hardly see how drinking requires courage.”

  “Then there shouldn’t be any problem, should there?”

  “Hmph.” More and more people were entering the bar—a surprisingly diverse array. Some were dirt-stained and clearly just in from the fields. Others wore simple but clean attire that marked them as men of business of some sort. In the corner of the room were a handful of women yabbering away as they mended clothing.

  “So this is where you go when you’re not at work and not at home.”

  “Yes.”

  Edwina returned to put two large mugs of a dark-looking liquid in front of them. There was no flirting this time. In fact, the girl looked like she couldn’t get away fast enough.

  “I can see the appeal,” Amelia muttered as the girl tripped away, her hips swinging.

  “Jealous?” Benedict grinned.

  “Should I be?”

  “Not in the least.” There was fire in his eyes, and wherever he looked, her skin burned. He didn’t say anything, but it was clear he was thinking about the previous night, the things he’d done to her in the bath. She grabbed the mug in two hands, grateful for any distraction, and took a big mouthful.

  Good grief.

  She forced herself to swallow it and pushed the mug away, her eyes burning. “Ugh. That is horrid.”

  Benedict laughed. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad? It’s like I knelt down and licked a London sidewalk.”

  Benedict laughed, a deep throaty chuckle that vibrated through her chest. He signaled for some water, which she gulped down thankfully.

  In the corner, a fiddler took the stage and began to play a tune.

  “What’s this?” she asked. “I feel like I’ve heard it before.”

  “Haydn. Sun Quartet,” Benedict said. “One of my mother’s favorites.”

  “I’ve never heard it played like this. Are all pub musicians so talented?” The tiny man on the stool had as much focus as some of the greatest musicians she’d seen at Hanover Square. He played with his whole body, from feet firmly planted on the floor as if he’d take flight if he moved them, to the dip and turn of his torso. He was magnificent.

  “Would it shock you if they were all talented?”

  “A little,” she replied dryly.

  Benedict frowned. “When one’s life is dirt and sweat, you could argue that beauty is far more appreciated than it is by someone who is surrounded by it all the time.”

  “But beauty is often the product of time and training, things the lower classes have much less of.”

  “And whose fault is that?” he said.

  “Not mine, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Benedict opened his mouth to respond but clamped it shut. His whole body stiffened as he focused on something over her shoulder.

  “Benedict, me lad. What a surprise to see ye here.” The heavy Scottish drawl was infused with sarcasm. She craned her neck to see who was speaking. The Scotsman was nearly a foot shorter than Benedict. His grey beard didn’t fully hide his sagging jowls or the yellow tinge to his face. His eyes were small and mean and firmly fixed on her husband.

  Behind him stood two others, a short barrel of a man and the gangly lad who’d refused to speak with her earlier in the day. The scowl on his face was even more fierce than it had been at Benedict’s factory. What is his problem?

  This was another reason ladies didn’t belong in a place like this. She took a fortifying breath. Men could sense unease.

  Benedict stood, crossing the distance between his chair and hers, effectively blocking her view as he shook the Scot’s hand. “Alistair.” His tone was a warning if she’d ever heard one. He put a hand on her shoulder, preventing her from standing.

  “Good to see ye, lad. Ye haven’t dropped by for a drink with us common folk in weeks.”

  The stranger stepped past Benedict, taking the seat Benedict had just left. He spread his legs wide, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, fingers drumming, and turned his intent stare to her. It was full of dislike and derision.

  “We’ve yet to be introduced, lass.” His tone was familiar—the derogatory drawl of a man who thought women vacant, vapid fripperies. A type of man that existed across all social classes, apparently.

  It was a tone she was glad to hear because it told her exactly how she needed to respond. If he thought to intimidate her, he was grossly out of his depth.

  She gave him the same long, judgmental perusal the impertinent barmaid had given her and then wrinkled her nose and turned away, as if he were as inconsequential as a bad smell.

  The drumming of his fingertips ceased.

  Behind her, Benedict gave her shoulder
a light squeeze. “Lady Amelia, may I introduce Mr. Alastair McTavish. Alastair, Lady Amelia Asterly.”

  The young boy snorted and crossed his arms. “Lady Asterly. Don’t that sound fancy.”

  “It’s nice to see you again, Jeremy,” she said. Sometimes kindness was the most effective weapon.

  His lips thinned, and he turned his face away, suddenly fascinated by a spider busily spinning its web in the rafters.

  “I apologize,” Benedict said. “He’s generally better behaved than this.”

  The boy’s ears turned crimson, and the look he threw in Benedict’s direction was furious.

  “No need to apologize,” the third man said, clapping a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Jeremy’s just exercising his God-given right to converse when and with whom he chooses. With your permission, of course. Charles Tucker, at your service.” He gave a mocking bow.

  “Charles Tucker? The same Charles Tucker whose gang threw rotten cabbages at Lord and Lady Darnmouth last Season as they left the theater? I thought you’d been arrested.”

  He smiled. “I’m too quick for that, m’lady.”

  Before Amelia could respond, Benedict took her elbow, firmly dragging her from the chair. “And on that note, we must take our leave.”

  “Go back to yer love nest then. ’Twas a pleasure to meet ye, m’lady. Ye both look very happy. I guess your marriage cannae be the flaming disaster Benny said ’twas.”

  Benedict’s hand gripped tighter on her elbow, but no tighter than the grip those words had on her heart. She wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d been thrilled at their marriage, but she also hadn’t expected that he’d shared his horror with men like this.

  That he would discuss her in any way was humiliating. Her ears burned, and she ground her teeth to keep from lashing out.

  “We’re leaving.” He was angry. She could hear it in his voice, but there was no way he could be angrier than she was.

  Cassandra was sitting at the bottom of the stairs leaning against the banister when they got home, her hair in the ridiculous curls Amelia kept insisting she wear, a book in her lap. Her look of boredom transformed into excitement the moment she set eyes on the basket of shopping his wife gripped tightly. She jumped up and hop-skipped across the foyer to them.