Lord of Scandal

by Nicola Cornick

  “Excuse me,” he said and walked out of the room without another word. Catherine heard Churchward’s astonished gasp. “Lady Hawksmoor—”

  Catherine shook her head. Somewhere inside her she had always been prepared for this final loss. She knew that Ben had wanted her and the money together, and now the money was gone. So he had gone, too. But the reality of it was almost too painful for her to bear. She tried desperately to blot it out, afraid that once she allowed herself to feel, it might destroy her.

  “Thank you for telling me the truth, Mr. Churchward,” she said trying to keep her voice even. “No doubt I shall require further details in a little while but for now I think I had better return home to speak with my father as soon as he is sufficiently recovered to face me.”

  “Can I do anything to assist you, Lady Hawksmoor?” Mr. Churchward asked. He was looking almost as pale and shocked as Catherine felt.

  “I should be grateful if you could procure me a hack to take me home,” she said. “I imagine that my husband has taken the carriage.”

  “He will be back,” Churchward said. He looked desperately anxious but Catherine knew well enough that his words, offered in comfort, could not be true.

  “I doubt it,” she said.

  She stood up and smoothed down her skirt with a very deliberate gesture. “Thank you, Mr. Churchward,” she said again. “I appreciate your sentiments but I suspect I have only myself to blame. I think I have always known in my heart that this might happen. Lord Hawksmoor always was a fortune hunter and where there is no fortune…” She let the sentence hang.

  Somehow she managed to get out of the building without breaking down. The black carriage with the Hawksmoor crest was still out in the street, but there was no sign of Ben. Catherine drove back to St. James’s. It did not take long. She was cold now, shivering and shivering as though she had an ague, and her throat was sore with the effort of keeping the tears at bay.

  She knew before she set foot inside that Ben was not there. The house was quiet and Price, his face wreathed in worry lines, confirmed that Ben had not yet been home.

  Catherine took a hackney to Guilford Street and on the way she thought about Ben and her brief marriage and the fact that it was over before it had barely started. The tears were running silently down her face now and, though she tried to brush them aside, she did not seem able to stop. Little by little, the ice in which she had tried to encase her heart was melting and the pain was almost unbearable.

  As soon as Lady Russell had warned her that her financial affairs were in difficulty, she had been afraid that it would come to this. Ben had given her comfort and support in the time since Lily’s death but she had known it did not mean he loved her. He had never made any secret of the fact that he wanted her but it was her money he really loved. She had asked Ben on the ice that magical night if he would have married her if she were poor, and he had not answered her. In that failure to answer was all the truth she needed. It had mattered to him. He had just proved it. He had seen her lose her fortune and he had walked out without a word. He had simply never been strong enough to step out of the shadows of his past. He needed the security that money could buy and she could not give that to him now. So he had gone.

  She had lain in Ben’s arms and had known exquisite pleasure at his hands, and had loved him and given herself to him without reservation. She had thought, foolishly, that her love might be enough for both of them. There had been a moment there in Churchward’s office when she had hoped with all the love that was in her heart that this would be true and Ben Hawksmoor would prove to be a better man than he had always claimed to be. She knew now a fraction of how he had suffered as a boy, all the fear and the deprivation and the poverty. She knew how much he had done to keep his mother safe when his father had abandoned them. He had saved her life when Withers had attacked her and she had seen with her own eyes the courage he had shown attempting to save Withers himself, a man he hated. There was so much good in him. Just not quite enough.

  She had trusted herself to him, believing that Ben might not love her but he would never deliberately hurt her. But he had. He had wounded her so deeply now that she was afraid she could never forgive him. She closed her eyes. There was such a fine line between love and hate. She had loved Ben and he had let her down. She knew she was not feeling quite sane—Lily’s death had grieved her deeply and now this latest tragedy had broken her heart. She had loved Ben and now she almost hated him for what he had done.

  The carriage drew up in Guilford Street, and Catherine paid the driver and walked slowly up the steps. Tench was waiting for her at the door with the slightly nervous look that all the servants seemed to be wearing these days.

  “Miss Catherine…Is it very bad, ma’am?”

  “I think so, Tench,” Catherine said. “I must go and speak with my father. Is he awake?”

  “Aye, ma’am,” Tench confirmed. “He is in the study, though he takes no food nor speaks to no one.”

  Catherine nodded. She went into the study and closed the door.

  Sir Alfred was sitting before the fire and he did not move as she came in, did not even appear to have heard her. Catherine went around and took the chair in front of him. His chin was sunk on his chest but he raised his eyes and looked at her.

  “They tell me that Withers is dead,” he said.

  “He is,” Catherine said.

  Sir Alfred nodded. He did not seem interested.

  There was a silence. “Why did you do it?” Catherine asked suddenly. She felt angry but she felt empty, too, as though everyone she had ever felt she might depend upon had shown themselves to have feet of clay. “Why did you take all my trust fund?”

  She looked around at the opulent furnishings. They had all the trappings of wealth, but not for long now.

  “Did you not have enough for yourself?” she asked, the anger burning through her tone now. “Did you feel so deprived that you had to take what was mine—what my grandfather worked for and left to me?”

  “It would not have mattered,” Sir Alfred said suddenly, “if only you had married Withers. You would never have known. All he wanted was you.”

  “He wanted to take everything you had,” Catherine corrected. “Not because you had done anything to him but simply to show you that he could. He was drunk with the power of it all, Papa, mad with laudanum. He would have stopped at nothing.”

  Sir Alfred’s gaze slid away. He did not reply.

  “He killed Lily,” Catherine said. “He killed Mather and he killed Clarencieux.” When her father did not speak she leaned closer. “You knew?”

  Sir Alfred nodded slowly. “I could not stop him. You said it yourself—he was mad. He did these things because he could. It was nothing to do with me.”

  “It was to do with you!” Catherine burst out. “You connived with him because of Maggie.” She shook her head. “And he took Maggie, too. Does it not appall you, Papa? That you could be so weak and let him take so much?”

  “He did not take you,” Sir Alfred said. “You were strong.”

  Catherine’s mouth twisted but she did not reply.

  “What will you do?” Sir Alfred asked suddenly. “What will you do to me? I have stolen your inheritance.”

  There was a silence. Catherine had been thinking about this in the carriage, and in the midst of her misery and despair, she knew that no matter what he had done, nor how weak he had been, he was still her father. She could not betray him to the authorities.

  “I am sure,” she said, speaking slowly, “that the bank will accept that we were both deceived by Lord Withers. After all, you are my father. No one would imagine that you would deliberately set out to cheat me. Although you were one of my trustees, you were fooled. Withers tricked us all.”

  Sir Alfred looked up, a spark of light in his sunken eyes. “You would do that for me?”

  “No,” Catherine said. “But I would do it for John and for Mirabelle.”

  “Agatha will look after you,”
Sir Alfred said. “She will see you are not left penniless.”

  “I do not wish her to,” Catherine said, suddenly fierce. “I can work, Papa. I have done so little all my life that now perhaps is the time for me to discover just what I can do.” She looked at him. “And I suggest that you do the same. People depend upon you, Papa.”

  She went out into the hall. Soon, she knew, she must write to Mr. Churchward and ask him, at his earliest convenience, to meet with her and her father to discuss all the details of their financial plight. She would make it clear that Sir Alfred should be absolved of blame. Then she needed to write to Maggie and ask her to return home with the children. Now that Withers was dead and her dependency broken, there might be a way forward. She would also have to speak to the servants, make arrangements to close the house if necessary…. There were so many things to sort out. Her head ached just to think of it.

  But first there was one very important thing to do. She thought of Ben and all the anger that was in her, all the misery, fused into one hard pain in her heart.

  She took the waiting hackney to Grillons, where Lady Russell met her and wrapped her in her arms and held her until she was able to speak. Catherine told her godmother all about the fraud and about her father and finally about Ben. She had thought that Lady Russell would be angry, but her godmother simply held her hand and looked at her sadly.

  “I thought he loved you,” she said. “I thought he loved you enough to stay.”

  Catherine shook her head. “He may have loved me a little but he loved the money more.” She straightened up.

  “I called him out once before,” she said, “but this time I will go through with it, Aunt Agatha. He has broken my heart. He will meet me for this. I am going to challenge him and this time I am going to kill him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  If a lady and gentleman have a sincere regard and respect one for the other then the right and just outcome should be a happy marriage.

  —Mrs. Eliza Squire, Good Conduct for Ladies

  WHEN SAM ARRIVED AT SALTCOATS that afternoon, he found Edna embroidering in the parlor. There was no sign of Paris.

  “Madam is upstairs,” Edna said in answer to his inquiry. “She is lying down. She is not feeling well.”

  “I will go up,” Sam said.

  Edna shook her head. “I would not do that, sir. She wishes to see no one.”

  Sam chewed his lip. “I will go up to her anyway,” he said.

  Edna shrugged and bent over her embroidery. Sam knew she thought he was a fool.

  Paris was indeed on her bed, but she was not asleep. Her eyes were wide open and she was staring into the shadows. The marks of the chicken pox were starting to fade now. Her skin looked creamy pale, her hair dark spun gold and her eyes a deep mysterious blue. Sam felt his heart lurch. He could not be indifferent to her physical beauty even when he thought her an utter shrew.

  “Paris?” he said. “What is it? Edna told me you were feeling ill. Should the sickness not be receding now?”

  Paris sat up abruptly and glared at him. “What, are you a doctor now, Sam Hawksmoor, that you can treat the chicken pox? How should I know why I am feeling ill?”

  “I am sorry,” Sam said mildly. “May I fetch you anything? A glass of water? Some food?”

  For a moment, Paris looked as though she was genuinely about to be sick at the thought of food. Then she swung herself off the bed and stood up, swaying slightly.

  “You can take yourself off,” she said. “I need nothing from you. I am going back to London tomorrow.”

  “It is probably a little too soon—” Sam began.

  “I need to find Beaufoy,” Paris said. “I must make him marry me.”

  Sam blinked. He began to wonder if she was running a fever. It did not seem like the best moment to tell her that the Duke of Beaufoy’s guardians had taken advantage of her absence to hustle their young charge out of London and harm’s way.

  Paris started to drag a portmanteau out from under the bed. She looked at him over her shoulder.

  “Are you still there? Why? I told you to go.”

  “I will go in a moment,” Sam said.

  “Good,” Paris said viciously, “because I get tired of you always doing everything I tell you, like a lap dog.”

  Sam gritted his teeth. He did not know why he was prompted to try to help her. Probably it was as Ben had once said—he wanted to see good in everyone, to believe that even this tart with a heart of ice had some redeeming features even though he had not found them yet.

  “Paris,” he said, “tell me what is wrong—”

  “There is nothing wrong!”

  “Yes there is!” Sam grabbed her arms. It was the first time he had ever touched her. In response she pummeled his chest and kicked his ankles, rather ineffectually since he was wearing boots and she had slippers on. With a noise of frustration, she wrenched herself away from him and swept everything from the top of the chest of drawers. Sam watched the white jug and bowl smash to jagged pieces. The water from the jug started to drip between the floorboards.

  “That will bring the parlor ceiling down,” Sam said. “It has been there since 1526.”

  “What do I care?” Paris shouted.

  Edna, summoned by the crash of breaking china, had come running up the stairs. She looked from Paris to Sam and raised her eyes heavenward.

  “She is always like this when she is in a temper,” she said. “It’s the spots, you know. The itching drives her to madness.”

  “No it isn’t the spots!” Paris shrieked. She looked from one of them to the other and Sam suddenly saw that her eyes were full of angry tears. “How would you know, you stupid old woman? It isn’t the spots! It isn’t! It isn’t!”

  Sam looked at Edna. Edna was looking at Paris like a woman who has instinctively realized something very surprising and very interesting.

  “Oh, my good lord,” she said faintly, and sat down on the bed.

  Sam felt confused. He spread his hands. “Will one of you please tell me—”

  “I am having a baby,” Paris said. She stood defiant, hands on hips. “I am enceinte. Of all the damnable disasters! I must find Beaufoy at once.” She bent to the portmanteau again. “Help me with this, will you?” she ordered Edna.

  Sam put both of them to one side and lifted the case onto the bed. “Is it Beaufoy’s child?” he asked slowly.

  Paris looked scornful. “What does it matter if it is his or not? I can make him marry me or at least pay.”

  “He has left town,” Sam said. “His guardians have packed him off to the north. You will never find him.”

  Paris’s blue eyes narrowed with fury. Sam prudently stepped out of range.

  “Then I shall get rid of it,” she said. “Drink gin, take a hot bath…”

  “You can’t do that!” Sam felt horrified. He stepped closer to her. “You mustn’t do that, Paris.”

  “There is not enough hot water and no gin,” Edna said.

  “Then go and find some!” Paris shrieked.

  Edna went, her footsteps clattering down the stairs. Sam was not sure if she had actually gone to heat a kettle or whether she was merely keeping out of harm’s way.

  “It will be all right,” he heard himself say. “Everything will turn out.”

  “I am quite well,” Paris said in a hard voice. She looked at Sam. “Do not even think of offering to look after me, Sam Hawksmoor. I would not have you if you were dripping in jewels.”

  “I was not planning to,” Sam said.

  “Good,” Paris said. She rubbed her hand across her face. “Are you going now? Because I need to think. And I don’t want you here whilst I do it.” She paused and looked at him. “How is your cousin?” she asked suddenly.

  “He is married,” Sam said.

  Paris’s blue eyes narrowed to slits of fury. “I knew it. That puling little debutante! Very well. He has sold out on me. Now it is my turn.”

  BEN WAS DREAMING. He was on a quay and befo
re him the wide expanse of the river stretched as far as the eye could see, rippling and gleaming into infinity. It was dawn. In his dream state he knew that Catherine would be on a ship that sailed at first light. Already that light was strengthening and he had to find her.

  The quay was packed. He pushed people from his path, single-minded, desperate. So many faces, so many people who were not Catherine. He could not bear it. He had to find her because he knew he had failed her somehow and he could not stand it. He was terrified that he was too late.

  Then he saw her. She was standing with her back to him, but after a moment she turned and looked at him, and then he faced the greatest fear of them all, the dread that she would repudiate him—walk away, as he had walked away from her.

  He took a step toward her and reached out.

  But she was slipping from his grasp like a wraith, retreating from him and he could not hold her. He strained with his very fingertips to touch her….

  And awoke with a start to find someone standing beside his bed. It was morning—of which day, he could not be sure—and the light was streaming in and hurting his eyes, and he knew he stank of stale spirits.

  “Your cousins are here to see you, my lord.”

  Price was looking at him with disgust, as though he were some sort of specimen on a slab, and Ben could not blame him.

  The truth of what he had done hit him directly between the eyes. He had walked out on his wife. He had left her, no doubt destroyed her. He was no better than his father.

  He gave a groan and rolled over.

  “Your cousins, my lord,” Price said, implacable.

  Ben opened his eyes.

  “Which cousin?” he inquired.

  “Both,” Price said succinctly. He was already on his way back to the door, ignoring Ben’s comment that he wanted to see no one.

  Gideon was hurrying across to the bed, his hand outstretched. “Cousin!” His nose wrinkled as the smell of the brandy struck him and he recoiled. “We came as soon as we heard,” he said. He sat down on the end of Ben’s bed, in his sober attire looking rather like a priest come to administer the last rites.