A Little More Scandal

by Carrie Lofty

  He finished clearing his desk, then poured two tumblers of scotch, just in time to receive Lymon’s knock at the door.

  “I expected you next week,” William said, extending the drink. He believed in taking the offensive in all manners of business. No sense avoiding what they both knew.

  Lymon adjusted the set of his cravat, which was lined with a dark band of sweat. Good. He accepted the tumbler, gulping twice. “You’re a menace, Christie.”

  William nodded, unperturbed. “Come. Sit.”

  He resumed his place behind his desk, like taking up a fortified position. The solid piece of furniture was crafted of mahogany and had cost the equivalent of his first five years’ wages. But when receiving callers such as Lymon, he appreciated holding such an intimidating advantage.

  Lymon was tall but stooped, as if perpetually hovering over his typesetting apparatus. His hair was stark gray, but he was likely no older than forty-five. Never married. No children. Not even a mistress of note. His entire life was the Daily Journal. William could appreciate that single-minded dedication. He truly could. But his understanding never led to sympathies that determined his course of action.

  The man sat in one of two diminutive chairs facing the desk. Ink-stained fingers gripped the armrests. “I need capital.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “I’m in earnest, Christie. Market speculation is ruining the credit my backers had extended. Now they won’t be able to support the paper through the end of the month.”

  “And you come to me. Does that mean you’re ready to sell?”

  “I won’t!”

  William folded his hands on the desk and leaned in. “You don’t have much choice. And you know I have no interest in the day-to-day operations.”

  Lymon narrowed his deeply set eyes and sneered. “Just the occasional advertisement piece on some matter of Christie business.”

  “Would that be so terrible, especially in light of the circumstances?”

  “If I’m forced to sell, I’ll do so openly and accept bids from additional parties. You are not the only rich young buck in London.”

  A headache began, threatening to pop William’s eyeballs out onto the desk. First he was in competition for Miss Jones with regard to seduction. Now he stood on the verge of seeing the Daily Journal become fair game as well. Not that he minded competition; the foregone conclusion after so many years of hard-fought success was that he would acquire anything he desired. No question. Only this was an unexpected delay. He did not appreciate delays. The real goal remained the biggest financial prize of his life: that exclusive railroad contract.

  “I wonder if your shareholders would appreciate knowing how close your venture is to collapse. Or your employees. If you seek a wider pool of potential financiers, you run that risk.” William smiled inwardly when Lymon’s color strayed toward milky algae. “In the meantime, let us attempt working together, shall we? Run a piece on my railroad bid. Nothing extensive.”

  “And in exchange?”

  William turned to the safe behind his back. He passed through the combination and extracted one of a dozen trays stacked with coins. Several thousand pounds. He counted off one hundred and slid the golden gleam across the desktop. “A show of faith.”

  Lymon eyed the coins. The office was none so sweltering as the parlor, but he continued sweating. The wet sheen along his narrow, pinched upper lip only emphasized William’s estimation. He would win this hand.

  “And Miss Jones’s confession? We need that story.”

  “Soon,” William said with a nod. He was as certain about his eventual success with Catrin as he was about any other undertaking.

  Lymon bit his back teeth together, then sighed. A man defeated. “Who will write the story? You?”

  Defeated, but apparently not cowed.

  “I will. But I’ll permit you editorial license, of course.”

  “Of course.” Lymon stood and collected the coins. “I’ll show myself out.”

  “Certainly not,” William said, rising. He wanted one last opportunity to stand over the hunched newspaperman. Clapping Lymon on the back, he wrangled his most civilized smile. “I can be hospitable. When I so choose.”

  They walked down the corridor toward the front door. Yes, it was William’s home, but it was decorated like an exhibition of the most elegant, refined pieces money could buy. Susannah had started the job, and her dedication had intensified during her confinement. He had yet to make an alteration. Why would he? He lived in his office and slept in his bedchamber. Little else about the big, empty building was his. If the town house caught fire, he would grab nothing but stacks of papers, although rescuing his desk might cross his mind. The rest would constitute a brief period of mourning, knowing Susannah’s hard work had been consumed.

  Why these thoughts? He was far too practical to woolgather, especially with a man like Lymon still sniffing around for opportunity.

  Another fierce clap on the smaller man’s shoulder. “I’ll have the article sent around to your office. I’m asking you politely, Mr. Lymon, not to make me regret my . . . gift.”

  In a rare move, Lymon stood to his full height. He still lacked a few inches on William, but at least he appeared in possession of a spine. “It was no gift and we both know it, you arrogant Scots pig.”

  William grinned, genuinely. Not at the insult, but at having won yet another small victory. He liked pushing and pushing until the veneer cracked and the truth was laid bare. So few men liked what that process revealed.

  “Good day to you then, Lymon,” he said, opening the door. “A pleasure doing business.”

  He stopped short. The pulse that had been steady yet ardent—poised between risks and potential victories—jumped to an unhealthy pace. A surprise punch to the gut would have been more welcome.

  There on the stoop, her hand raised to knock, appearing for all the world like the proper lady she most definitely was not, stood Miss Catrin Jones.

  “Ah, so we meet at last,” Lymon said, doffing his hat.

  Her eyes, the color of exquisitely pale honey in the bright afternoon sunshine, flicked between the two men. “Pardon me?”

  Lymon bowed and introduced himself. “I’m the editor of the Daily Journal.”

  Catrin’s shoulders drew back. Tendons tightened along her neck. “I see.”

  Comprehension slid over Lymon’s face like mud down a steep slope, fast and dirty. Perhaps William had pushed him too far, injuring his pride. Instead of regretting the unfortunate meeting, which had the potential to dash any hope for Catrin’s exclusive story, Lymon merely laughed.

  “Yes, I see, too,” he said darkly. He situated his hat back atop his steel-gray hair, then patted the pocket where William’s bribe tattled with a metallic clink. “Indeed, a pleasure doing business, Mr. Christie.”

  Six

  Catrin watched the stooped, officious man walk down the sun-drenched lane until he turned a corner. She stayed in that fixed position. Her neck felt soldered in place. Breathe in. Breathe out. A breeze from the north danced through the tree boughs and toyed with the wide ribbon tied below her chin. The ice beneath her fingernails certainly had not been born of the summer heat.

  She had been right to suspect Mr. Christie, perhaps because he presented so much without artifice—the blunt, bullying strength of body and conviction. He was able to fool men with his lies, and maybe even other women, but she had registered his moment of hesitation like a tickle behind her ear. He did seek her story.

  “Miss Jones. I was not expecting you.”

  “Clearly.” He stood two steps up, which only added to his capacity to intimidate. To eliminate the artificial advantage, she climbed to meet him toe to toe. “Are you going to invite me inside? I believe we have much to say to one another.”

  “You could say it here. I doubt our surroundings will alter the conversation to come.”

  She scowled. “Likely not. But the point remains, Mr. Christie, that I would rather keep my concerns priva
te. That’s been the issue all along.”

  With a little shove of her shoulder against his upper arm—he moved not an inch—Catrin pushed past. The foyer was decorated with lovely golden wallpaper flecked through with silver threads that created a repeating floral pattern. Nothing too garish. But not to be forgotten, either. That seemed to be the theme of the décor: just enough wealth on display, without the mistakes many nouveau riche made in shouting their success to the world.

  Or so she had heard. What Catrin knew of the finer things had been gleaned from the likes of Lady Julia. She’d had the privilege of a veritable summer-long tutorial on how to avoid appearing to be a social aspirant. They were generous in thinking she harbored no such ambitions. Or perhaps Lady Julia and her friends wanted to ensure that future balls, dinner parties, and cups of high tea were not without a topic of gossip. Namely, Catrin.

  Her pride was none so fragile as to need everyone to speak well of her. Choosing to become a nurse had already earned speculation enough regarding her morals to fill encyclopedic volumes. But any unpleasantness would be better endured knowing that such a beautiful home awaited her. Safety and security. A base from which she could live as she wished.

  Only Mr. Christie’s deception meant he was no longer an option.

  He led her down a corridor. Delicate sconces lined the walk, as did serene landscapes and the occasional decorative mirror. The space was not so austere as to be unfriendly. In fact, it was appointed with charming collectibles. Yet neither did it reflect a soul she recognized. Despite knowing so little about him, Catrin could not imagine William Christie selecting any of the pieces. Too . . . finicky.

  “This way.” His voice was a sleek, rolling thundercloud. He opened a door and ushered her into his office.

  Catrin caught her breath. Now this . . . this she recognized.

  Lined floor to ceiling with heavy bookcases made of a dark wood, maybe mahogany, the office was a bastion of all things robust and masculine. Supple oxblood leather upholstered the chairs. A heavy wrought-iron lamp hung from the ceiling, directly over an absolutely massive desk. On the wall behind the desk was displayed a framed map of Scotland as its borders had existed under Robert the Bruce—a blatant show of Scottish pride in the middle of London.

  She wondered how men such as Lymon held their tempers, or their nerve, when confronting William within such a domain. It suited him so well that she shivered when stepping inside. If ever a tall, thickly muscled, raw-boned Scotsman had staked a base of operations, this was the ideal.

  He walked past and leaned against the dark, highly polished desk. Catrin noticed a slight curve to his shoulders. She dared not think he appeared chagrined, yet his posture was not as confident as it had been in Lord Stalton’s parlor.

  “Trust you,” she said. “I believe those were among the final words you produced when we last spoke privately.”

  “Yes.”

  “You lied to me.” Amazing that her voice remained so calm despite the fiery sense of betrayal thrumming behind her breast. The walk down the hall had been a mere distraction—a calm before the storm she readied to release. “You looked me square in the face, proposed courtship, and lied.”

  He crossed sturdy arms over his chest and propped one ankle atop the other. Chin down, he looked at her from beneath bronze eyelashes. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have a standing arrangement with Mr. Lymon regarding the story of your survival.”

  As William detailed the arrangements, including how they would affect his railroading ambitions, Catrin sat in one of the leather chairs. The deep maroon leather nearly matched her second-best gown. That she owned only two gowns also made it her worst, but she disliked such defeatist thoughts. If the ocean had not the strength to swallow her whole, mere fashion would not finish the deed.

  A curious numbness began to replace her anger, perhaps because he radiated mere calm. Only the stark facts of his enterprise, in which she figured as one of many cogs. Had he lied again, or had he attempted flattery or a slick recovery, she would’ve ended the appointment without hesitation.

  She watched the movement of his mouth. That deep Scots brogue should’ve been banned by prestigious lawmakers and outlawed in international treaties. He was simply too gruff, too plainly charming. Catrin found herself drawn, pulled, gathered into his sphere. Was that how he succeeded where so many men failed? He possessed some intangibility that made people want to stand beside him, as if his winner-take-all attitude might rub off on them. A mystic, not a businessman, who had been spinning straw into gold since his days as a penniless lad on the streets of Glasgow.

  His pragmatic approach spoke to her own ambitions. If only he’d decided against deception. The underhanded tactic meant he thought little better of her than of any other guileless female. She had fought just such probing bastards for months. He deserved no special concern, because her rationale for keeping her secret remained vital.

  He finished his recitation with no fanfare.

  “Why did you withhold this from me?” she asked.

  “Because my plans had very little to do with dancing, or even your gorgeous mouth. I doubt many women would have found the truth palatable, let alone engaging.”

  “Less palatable than being lied to? Perhaps some might prefer such condescension, but I am not one of them. You’ve insulted me with the very idea that I could be manipulated so easily.”

  “Yet you also admitted having ulterior motives for our would-be tryst.”

  “Yes,” she said tightly. “Admitted is the important word. I do not recall you offering any such information.”

  “We’re both in this for selfish means.”

  “I have my reasons for keeping quiet.”

  A swell of nausea momentarily distracted her from the argument. Waves and waves and waves again. She could share not a word of it. That she would need to lock that hideous ordeal in her heart forever was too difficult to contemplate. She would need to face each new morning with the same resolve. For the rest of her life.

  She flashed her gaze back to William. “You seem ready to barrel right past my intentions, set on invading my privacy, all for the sake of profiting from my experience. That’s hardly consistent with an honest courtship!”

  “And the matter of your poverty?”

  “I hardly see what that has to do with it. If anything, it forced me to be even more forthright. I cannot imagine a man such as yourself so artless as to believe I would fall instantly in love with you.”

  Brows lifted, chin still down, he offered a disparaging grin. “No.”

  “Then we have very little more to discuss, Mr. Christie.”

  “It’s William.”

  “You were William when I let you kiss me.”

  “Has that moment officially passed?”

  Catrin found neither despair nor hope in his tone, which made her hesitate. The fact remained, she was the aggrieved party. But she was also a woman on the hunt. William Christie remained a blunt man. If she could discern whether he hid any other malicious intentions . . .

  “Not officially,” she said after a hard swallow. “So you see our dilemma.”

  At that, he straightened. “I see two people with incompatible problems. I do not, however, believe in problems without resolutions.”

  The room needed another ten feet square to accommodate his wide shoulders. The lamp above the desk cast light just behind his head, creating a halo around the edges of hair the shade of ripened wheat. Although impressive, the effect obscured his eyes in a wisp of shadow. She would have liked to see what he was thinking.

  “In that we are in agreement,” she said.

  He raised his brows and drew his head back. Obvious surprise. Obvious . . . interest.

  Catrin’s icy shock started to thaw. She could negotiate as well as anyone. Five years spent haggling for soap or bandages, or trading in foreign towns where no one spoke English, had provided her with priceless skills—on occasion through inelegant trial a
nd error.

  “You are in need of a story, are you not?”

  “Yes.” Wariness pinched at his eyes. “Do you intend to share it with me?”

  “Perhaps I will share a story, especially now that Mr. Lymon has seen us together. What you both likely thought a rather unfortunate meeting on your front stoop could be advantageous.”

  “How do you know what I thought unfortunate?”

  “You were caught in a lie, Mr. Christie,” she said simply. “That could not have been any more pleasant for you than it was for me.”

  Slowly, resuming that pose by which he knelt without any thought toward matrimony, he brought his face even with hers. “It was unpleasant. For you especially. I apologize.”

  She held her breath for a moment, taken aback, but she did not lean against the leather. He caged her with broad shoulders, his hands on either armrest. The two weeks since Lord Stalton’s ball had been an experiment, matching other men against William’s . . . well, all of him. Although she had allowed no one else to kiss her—feeling, quite sensibly, that tempting fate once had been enough—she had listened to their voices, watched their eyes, felt their hands as they guided her through waltzes and quadrilles.

  With each candidate, she knew two things: a glimmer of unease in her stomach, and the fact that William Christie watched her, no matter what she did or with whom she danced. None of her other possible suitors had been so complicated. Neither had they exuded any tingle of anticipation and adventure.

  This was complicated, but it was a paltry concern to overcome if the rewards proved suitable.

  “It was unpleasant,” she said, throat tight. “But do not apologize when you do not mean it. I specifically asked your intentions, and you chose to keep them from me. Do you remember that?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you did so with the full intent of deceiving me. To apologize now is insulting.”