by Suzi Love
Scenting Scandal
By
Suzi Love
Dedication
To all the people who kept me going
while I pursued my dream of becoming an
author, I'm truly grateful to all of you.
Special thanks to my family and friends
and all my fellow romance writers,
especially the Unicorns and Sultry Scribes.
Scenting Scandal
Copyright Suzi Love 2014
Published by Suzi Love at Smashwords
Edited by Tessa Schapcott
Cover by Anna Scheuringer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems--except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews--without permission in writing from the author at [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
For more information on the author and her works, please see www.SuziLove.com
This book is also available in print from online retailers.
Chapter One
St. James Church, Piccadilly, London, 1843
If Lady Laura Jamison had inherited her great-grandmother’s ability to portend disaster, she’d have pleaded a megrim, locked herself in her bedchamber, and avoided this morning’s humiliation and stomach-churning terror.
To her chagrin, her senses only warned her of more immediate danger. So, when a grubby urchin had slipped a piece of crumpled paper into Laura’s gloved hand outside the church, she’d acted on instinct and thrust the note into her pocket. She’d read the message from their informant in private, after her sister’s wedding, when she’d have time to consider which, if any, of her family members should be informed.
If the note contained what she thought—a time and place to meet later today—the man must have uncovered something significant about the enemy they were tracking. And if the newly-weds caught even a hint of what was in the wind, their long-delayed honeymoon would be postponed again. No; far better to inform her other siblings at a later time, or perhaps not tell them at all and attend the rendezvous alone.
A brilliant plan except for one large flaw, or rather, one very masculine brick wall, in the form of the bridegroom’s cousin, Richard St. Martin, Earl of Winchester. Though Winchester knew better, the obstinate man treated her as a simpering miss who should be sent to a fainting couch with a maid waving smelling salts under her nose, rather than an intelligent woman who was perfectly capable of making her own decisions. Winchester, having promised the duke that he’d guard the Jamison women with his life, was determined to assume the position of battle commander.
During the service joining Becca and Sherwyn as husband and wife, Laura had felt a prickle of awareness across the back of her neck and known that someone, most likely the Earl of Winchester, had been staring at her rather than the minister conducting the church service. And the moment Laura had followed the bride and groom outside to the sun-drenched steps, Winchester had magically appeared at her side and taken her arm, firmly looping it around her elbow.
“The moment we’re alone,” he’d said, his tone as quietly confident as his manner, “you shall hand over the note in your pocket. I want to know who sent it, and why.”
She’d stiffened, thoroughly annoyed that once again the hawk-eyed earl had outsmarted her. No doubt Richard had noticed the sleight of hand between herself and the messenger before the service and, with his eye for detail, had embarrassingly counted the times Laura had needed to reach into her reticule during the ceremony to extract enough handkerchiefs to soak up her river of happy tears. The final straw had been when he’d adhered himself to her side closer than a layer of boot-maker’s glue, ushered her past her bemused family, and swept her down the wide steps to take up positions in a shaded side area, uncaring that the departing wedding guests were recording every titillating fact to spread during afternoon-tea-and-gossip visits.
The steps provided the best vantage point for watching the street below and the bride and groom’s departing carriage, but Laura couldn’t fathom why Winchester had deliberately moved away from her family. It was a contradictory action from an affirmed bachelor who went to great pains to ensure he was never alone with any one of the dozens of debutantes thrown in his path each season. Despite knowing him so well, Laura felt a tiny tingle of excitement at being singled out by the most fought-over bachelor at her sister’s wedding, which was a great pity considering Richard needed mere seconds to burst her bubble of feminine self-delusion.
Winchester patted her fingers and spoke gently in her ear, as if bolstering a wilting older lady, “You may dry your eyes and regain your composure. We are away from onlookers here.”
Winchester’s unexpected kindness brought another rush of tears to her eyes, though she turned her head away and scolded herself for being a weak-kneed girl, instead of a quick-thinking woman. Having his lean body pressed against hers, scandalously-close, not only jeopardized her freedom later in the day, but the essential maleness of the man distracted her from her objective of finding and removing their main enemy and saving her family.
She scuffed the toe of her silk slipper across the stone step, back and forth, as she tried to recall if her reticule held enough coins to pay a hackney-driver to take her across the city. Tipping back her head, she peered past the wide-brim and lace ruffles of her bonnet; her aunt’s choice of hat was as impractical for a lady of action as the expensively-embroidered shoes.
She needed thunderclouds. A solid downpour would scatter the group, deter her attendant and ruin the ugly new accessories. Needless to say, the sky remained a ridiculously bright blue. Her longed-for rainstorm appeared as improbable as the Earl allowing her to sprint down the road and escape.
Laura looked over her shoulder, up the steps, to where her aunt fluttered around Lottie like a bee around a daffodil. Laura’s golden-haired sister radiated sunshine in their matching, too-bright yellow wedding-day finery, but, unfortunately, the color drained all vibrancy from Laura’s darker complexion and leeched the last vestige of pink from her cheeks. She glanced down at her skirt, groaned, and attempted to smooth the unflattering flares and flounces away with her hand.
Today, of all days, she longed for her peers to regard her as the stylish and poised sister. And she needed the man standing next to her, securing her to his side as if she were a wayward child, to realize she had long since matured into a resourceful and dependable lady.
Despite them being alone, Winchester again spoke very close to her ear, his tone a confusing mix of decisiveness, annoyance and an inexplicable wistfulness. “Ignore those jealous women and their catty remarks.” Her head shot up. “The only fruit you resemble is a temptingly juicy one. One which every man present longs to bite into.”
Her eyes widened and she stared at him. However, she was no witless Mayfair chit. She’d overheard enough conversations between her brothers and the Duke’s cousins, purely by accident of course, to believe the rumors about the Earl were the absolute truth, and that the man only had to flash his dimpled smile for any woman to fall prey to his attractions.
Despite knowing that in her case Winchester wanted her obedience and compliance, not her body, his words sent a rush of goose flesh down her arms. And though any compliment from a known-seducer was dangerous—a lure dangled l
ike an apple before a horse’s mouth—more kind words from him shocked her enough to keep her at his side.
Curses on all smooth-tongued men. Because the only way she’d prove her fortitude, financial and personal, and survive three months of the Earl’s meddling, would be to keep her wits sharpened to a knife’s edge. Richard toyed with her, knowing she wanted nothing more than to kick off her ungainly slippers and flee, and used his most seductive tricks to bind her to him. Oh, yes, the man was indeed dangerous.
But like a child enchanted by the reading of a fairy tale, Laura listened and even smiled at his words, until finally she gave an emphatic shake of her head. “No. Those ladies were entitled perfectly correct with their ridicule of this gown. I resemble an overblown lemon.”
He lifted his large shoulder in a shrug and his arm rubbed up and down against hers, and her body again reacted by tingling and burning. A heart could be trained to not race and a woman learned to ignore a rake’s sensual comments, but would her traitorous body ever stop reacting to this man’s physical presence?
Only last evening, the Earl had implied she was jealous of her elder sister’s relationship with Sherwyn, and though there might be a smidgeon of truth to that, she’d been taunted by this man so many times that she’d caught onto his game. Winchester antagonized by hovering and subtly heckling, taunting her to verbally retaliate in a game of advance and retreat.
The Duke of Sherwyn, despite Laura’s volatile objections, had requested his cousin’s presence in their household in case the madwoman, Lady Hetherington, returned. Sherywn and Becca were about to sail on their honeymoon voyage and Laura’s brothers needed to return to their university studies. Yet Winchester, a known stickler for familial duty, had pretended to be coerced into caring for them as vigilantly as he watched over his four younger sisters and his wide-spread investments. Implied he’d been forced by his cousin against his will. Laura had passed several sleepless nights trying to fathom his reasons. Why was he provoking her passions and stirring her anger?
Because every minute of her time was about to be monitored by a man who, though he loved women and adored his siblings, treated them as drawing-room ornaments and shepherded them as closely as a flock of sheep. The girls grumbled, often though good-naturedly, about their brother’s smothering. And his use of spies, in every corner of England, employed to ensure each and every one arrived at their own weddings as innocent as lambs and with reputations whiter than fleece.
Laura risked another peek to count how many family members remained on the steps, waiting to wave their final goodbyes to the happy couple. Each face showed their collective worry as they looked at the traffic-clogged street and calculated the odds of the coach reaching the docks before the tide turned.
Her stomach clenched when her new brother-in-law’s coachman urged his horses into a gap between top-heavy merchants’ carts and expensive conveyances. The street remained as blocked as Mrs. Burn’s pollen-swollen nostrils when Laura’s strongest herbal brew failed to move it.
She’d assured her family, repeatedly, that any small disasters could be dealt with, swiftly and surely, by her alone. No need for a busy earl to disrupt his life, and no reason her brothers and sisters should fret about her safety because of an unsubstantiated rumor. But to her misfortune, every Jamison shared one disturbing trait: a highly suspicious nature. If they suspected her terror and deathly pallor were due to their old enemy’s rumored escape from her asylum, she’d be forbidden to set foot beyond her distillery in their fortress-like garden.
Or if they investigated their footman’s extra visit to his actress friend to purchase Laura’s concealing face paint, her sister would forgo her honeymoon to hover like a mother hen. The hatchling, Laura, would miss her one chance to be the decision-making sister and the Jamison their jobbers at the Exchange respected for her investment acumen.
Though her two brothers were younger, as males, their ears were deaf to her assurances the assistance of Lady Stevenson, a friend from the Women’s Betterment Society, was more than enough. In their minds, only a man of their own ilk, strong and confident, was acceptable to stand in their stead and support their sisters and aunt.
It was hard to decide which was the worst option: Becca spending her honeymoon engrossed in share trading records, or the wedded couple sailing and leaving Laura to cope with Winchester’s well-intentioned but frustrating meddling. She tugged on his arm, not wanting a public tussle, and glared at him, a scowl being the first deterrent her brothers had insisted their sisters learn to rebuke forward suitors.
At four-and-twenty years, she’d practiced enough times before a mirror and could now convey extreme displeasure and discouragement to even the most daring gentleman. Winchester, however, always the exception, raised one eyebrow and gave her the look, dubbed by his sisters as Richard’s Regal Regard. Fond indulgence overlaid with mild rebuke, a warning to his sisters of dire consequences if they stepped over the bounds of good behavior. Unfortunately, his four sisters had already departed, leaving her as the sole recipient of his reprimands. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.
He bent a good ten inches to whisper in her ear. “Your sister is watching through their carriage window. No doubt worried by your scowl, which I imagine is due to me standing beside you. Unless you convince Sherwyn and his new duchess you’re willing to accept my company, they may still refuse to sail.”
Her small gasp earned his knowing nod. She was reminded of the times he’d predicted outcomes long before she, highly-sensitive to atmosphere, had sensed any danger. To the Jamison women’s unease, Winchester read their thoughts and uncovered emotional frailties, with the same ease as deciphering his sisters’ convoluted schemes, as though female’s minds were open books with secrets laid out for his scrutiny on a library table.
She sighed. The wretched man was correct, as always. Her sister loathed inactivity. In another ten minutes, the ribbons on Becca’s travelling gown would be in knots and her fashionably upswept hairstyle a mass of entangled ringlets. Becca would chew her nails and fret about Laura’s share-buying acumen when the railway released its new shares. Her sister would ponder for the hundredth time whether Laura was strong enough to handle the rough-around-the edges jobbers who traded for them at the Exchange. She and Sherwyn might reconsider leaving on their voyage.
“Besides,” Winchester said, reading her mind as easily as if she marked every thought with a mountain-high signpost, “the faster those two depart, the quicker you can be rid of my company. For today, at least.”
“Then perhaps, my lord, instead of shooting daggers at me, you should try smiling.”
“And perhaps, my lady,” he repeated, mirroring her exasperation, “you should stop fidgeting.” His hold on her hand firmed. “I ask only for your cooperation. For a mere three months. Yet you’re acting as if I’m holding a gun to your head. Forcing you to walk a plank.”
Laura straightened. Not the plank, no. But he’d forced her to remember this morning’s vow to outshine the sun with her disposition. Beginning today, her astute juggling of their finances would outclass the county fair’s best performer. Men would admire her for more than a pleasing face and a curvy body. Women would realize she did more than dabble in remedies and medicaments. Despite Winchester’s interference, she’d overcome her dislike of mathematics and statistics and be viewed as a success in her share trading. And for her sister’s peace of mind, she’d turn her pretend smile into a real one.
She concentrated on restful images. Brooks babbled, birds sang, white fluffy clouds floated. Colorful rainbows arced and…. Nothing, dammit. Her frazzled nerves refused to be soothed. Trying not to alert her aunt, whose over-emotional farewells had already delayed proceedings, Laura tugged on Winchester’s arm. His leather-gloved hand held fast. The Devil take the blasted Earl and his oversized anatomy, his overwhelming maleness and his–
She shivered. Everything overpowering about this man, including his unwanted invasion of her senses, ought to be decl
ared illegal. A ticket tied to each limb reading: Danger. Avoid at all cost.
His cologne’s citrus tang, bergamot with an after-note of lemon, flooded her nose and made her sneeze. Another confirmation that the theory of natural selection being developed by scientists at the Royal Academe was correct. And an extra incentive to elude her keeper, ergot the enigmatic Earl, and pay another visit to her friends, Mr. Charles Darwin and his cousin, both men grandsons of Mr. Erasmus Darwin, famed researcher and theorist.
While she listed to herself the scientific reasons for avoiding the Earl, her herbalist and caring side, or more likely her feminine one, overruled. She reminded herself a few more drops of lemon should be added to the next batch of cologne she blended for Richard. Even as she mentally cursed her siblings for insisting she work closely with Winchester, Laura’s traitorous body responded in a physical way to his presence.
Imagining him, an expert financier, being granted full authority over not merely her 'Change transactions, but also her daily household accounts, horrified her. Mortification would nail closed her coffin if he compared her scientific skills with those of her extraordinarily talented four siblings and found her wanting. Or, heaven save her, exposed her failures to the world.
Her nose itched with another oncoming sneeze. Perhaps she could unearth one more handkerchief from the bottom of her tumbled reticule, though considering her recent run of bad luck she’d more likely need to borrow one, from him. With the brief span of time she had to prove her proficiency both in running the household and investing, she’d be drawn and quartered before she’d request a handkerchief or beg assistance from Winchester.