In Pursuit of a Scandalous Lady

by Gayle Callen

  She gave a reluctant smile. “An ingenious plan.”

  He nodded, and said in a serious voice, “I know.”

  She frowned at his arrogance.

  “Hey, mate!”

  They both started. A porter on the deserted platform for the down line was gaping at them.

  “Ye can’t cross between the lines there!” the man cried. “Ye could have been killed.”

  Before Lord Parkhurst could speak, she called, “Oh, sir, I’ve never ridden a train before. This man only tried to stop me, and surely he saved me from being run over by the train!”

  The porter grumbled and motioned for them. After they crossed the tracks, the porter reached down to help her, for she could not jump onto the platform in her unwieldy skirts. Lord Parkhurst moved behind her and put his hands directly on her backside to boost her up with the porter’s help. Her mouth tightened at such familiarity, and she could not escape the intimacy quick enough. How much had he been able to see beneath her skirts?

  She tossed a glare at him over her shoulder when she was safe on the platform. With ease, he boosted himself up, going from a squat to standing with graceful energy, the sleeves of his coat tightening over thick muscles. Ruefully, she imagined anything physical was never a challenge for him.

  And then she blushed as he looked at her, as if he could read her mind. She quickly turned away.

  The porter gave them another incredulous look and stomped away, leaving them alone on the platform. Her reticule dangled from her wrist, but that was all the luggage they had between them.

  She gave him a bright smile. “Shall you buy your return ticket?”

  He frowned. “Two men were following you, Rebecca. You expect me to leave you here?”

  “I will be fine. I’ll get back on the next train and go to my aunt’s.”

  “It will have been easy for them to discover where you were journeying. Servants talk.”

  “Not our servants!”

  “Your servants told me you were at Banstead House this afternoon.”

  “You are an earl. Of course they’d feel they must obey you—and you used that against them. Regardless, I certainly cannot be seen traveling with a man.”

  To her shock, he lifted his hand and set his fingers on her bodice, right where the jewel hung just at the top of her breasts. She gasped, and her breathing picked up again, which only made her breasts touch his sleeve with rapid little flutters. A strange and almost achy sensation flushed through her.

  “And what were you going to do with the diamond?” he asked in a low voice.

  She batted his hand away and renewed her smile. “That’s my problem, my lord.”

  He looked behind himself, but the platform was yet deserted. He spoke softly. “From now on, you cannot call me that. I am Julian, Rebecca.”

  His tone was too intimate—as had been his touch. He’d rescued her from one situation, and thrown her into the fire of another.

  “The sun is setting, and we cannot remain in the open,” he continued. “Your thieves might already have deduced what we did and know where to come.”

  Could she trust him? She still knew nothing about him except gossip—and that had only been about some scandal of which she didn’t know the details. He was reclusive in Society—what was he concealing? Did he just “happen” to be following her when the thieves were?

  All she could do was bide her time. “So we find an inn? Surely there is one near the railway station.”

  “We can’t use that. We need to conceal ourselves, not appear as an earl and a gentlewoman.”

  She gave him an ironic glance. “In my present disheveled state, that will be easier for me.”

  He rubbed his chin. “True, you look like a doxy who found a fine gown in the rubbish.”

  She resisted the urge to slap him. “Did no one ever tell you that insulting a lady is bad form?”

  “No insult meant—I simply told the truth.” He looked down at himself. “For myself, it will be difficult to blend in wearing such garments.”

  “A shame we didn’t bring luggage,” she said dryly, hands on her hips. “Very well, let us find an inn before our friends return. Have you ever been here before?”

  He shook his head. “If only it were that easy. Since we still have an hour or so of daylight, we’ll start walking, looking for the oldest section of the city. We’ll ask for directions there, rather than here, where railway employees might remember us.”

  She grinned. “Well thought out, Lord—Julian.”

  They walked through the crooked, narrow streets of an unfamiliar town, with its medieval timber-framed houses that almost overlapped each other. Julian followed those streets as much as possible, as the light disappeared down dark alleys. The ground sloped gently upward, toward an old church that sat at the summit of Coventry.

  They received many suspicious stares, even though he’d removed his cravat and waistcoat and smeared dirt on his well-polished boots. He’d even torn the shoulder of his coat and the hem of Rebecca’s cloak.

  But it was difficult to hide her natural, ladylike grace, the proud way she carried herself. And although he kept warning her of the seriousness of their situation, she actually seemed to be enjoying herself. Other women would protest as they entered narrower, more decrepit lanes, but she only looked about with interest, studying everything she could.

  Or memorizing the path they’d taken. Intelligent of her. But although he kept reminding her to lower her gaze in a docile fashion, she couldn’t seem to remember.

  At last he thought they were far enough from the train station that he felt safe entering a tavern to ask for the nearest inn. His size tended to inspire quick answers, so he didn’t have to leave Rebecca standing outside the door for any length of time. And although his garments called attention to himself, his rural accent was flawless.

  When he emerged back onto the twilit street, Rebecca looked up at him with grudging interest. “That was well done,” she said softly. “And I thought I was the only one who could mimic the servants.”

  “The talent will come in handy,” he said. “This way.”

  They walked side by side and he considered her. “Why did you learn to mimic the servants?”

  She shrugged. “If you know anything about me, you know that I was ill often as a child. That left me with much free time. I learned to read aloud and alter my voice to fit the parts. It was a game my brother and I played. We became very good at it. And you?”

  She seemed so vibrant that it was difficult to imagine her pale and ill. He looked ahead of him, at a lounging man who came to his feet when he saw them. Julian frowned, and the man promptly sat back down on his crate and hunched his shoulders.

  “Accents came quite naturally to me,” Julian said, “probably because I was with the servants more than anyone else.”

  He sensed her curiosity, but didn’t see the need to satisfy it.

  “You have a large family,” she said, “or so my mother tells me. One would think they would take up most of your time.”

  “The inn should be nearby.”

  She was still studying him too intently, but she didn’t continue her questions.

  On the next block, they found the inn, The White Hare, whose faded sign hung crookedly. There was an arch leading into a stabling yard where several broken-down carriages sat among the weeds. The stables stood open and empty, without horses to rent.

  “You have investments in railways?” she asked quietly.

  He frowned down at her. “You heard me discuss it with Mr. Seymour. Why?”

  “This is what happened to small towns because of the railways.”

  He nodded. Coaches no longer moved up and down England, leaving posting inns to fade into oblivion.

  “But how many days would it have taken us to get here by coach?” he countered.

  “I didn’t say there weren’t benefits. I enjoy the train. Someday I’d like to travel it as far north as I can and see even more of England.”

&
nbsp; Now she seemed to be babbling, and he couldn’t blame her. They stepped into the hall of the inn, with its unswept floor and empty sideboards. A lone young man occupied the counter, propped on a stool and looking bored. The youth barely glanced at them when Julian signed the register.

  Rebecca peered over his shoulder, and he knew she saw the signature, “Mr. and Mrs. Bacon.” She only arched a brow and turned away.

  He needed to be alone with her and keep both her and the diamond safe. But it didn’t seem to bother her to be labeled his wife.

  And his groin tightened at the thought.

  A shuffling chambermaid showed them to their room and started a fire in the coal grate. She turned down the bed, not meeting their eyes.

  “We’ll be needin’ a meal,” Julian said, handing over a coin for her trouble.

  The girl looked at it in surprise. “Aye, sir. Me mum made a fine mutton and pudding.” Then she truly looked at him, and bobbed a curtsy.

  When she had gone, Rebecca said, “I imagine you tipped her far too well, which made her notice your garments—and remember us.”

  He glanced at her and gave a faint smile. “I will not make that mistake again.”

  “We won’t be dressed like this for long. For more coin, she will be able to find clothing for us, so your generosity won’t go to waste.”

  He stood in the center of the room, watching as Rebecca prowled about. She ducked her head behind a changing screen, partially torn. The chamber pot must have been hidden behind, for her cheeks were a delicate pink when she straightened. There was one bed, and he wasn’t even sure his shoulders would fit across it, let alone the two of them.

  Had she realized yet?

  She stumbled to a halt at the foot of the bed. “Lord—Julian,” she began. After a pause, she turned away from the bed. “I need a moment’s privacy. Would you wait in the hall?”

  He used the privy in the stable yard, and by the time he returned, she was seated before the grate, finally looking uncertain. She’d lit several coarse candles, but there wasn’t a lamp. Her hair, though disheveled, gleamed in the warm yellow light, and her eyes, great pools of mystery, regarded him steadily. She’d removed her cloak, and with the shadows, he could see the faint lump of the diamond, the Scandalous Lady, she kept hidden. How much should he reveal to her? And what should be their next move?

  But before he had to think about it, the maid returned with a tray, and the two of them sat down on stools at the wobbly, rough table and began to eat.

  They were both clearly famished, for even the pudding was appetizing, though it tasted of onions. The coarse bread steamed, and the butter was fresh.

  “Oh, heavens, this tastes like the best feast,” she said, speaking with her mouth full. “I didn’t even have time to eat the luncheon at the reception.”

  “You mean before you ran away from me?”

  “I don’t run away.”

  But she had, he thought, not arguing the point, for she knew it well. But now the specter of the near kiss rose between them—at least in his mind. She seemed determined to devour every last crumb, then washed it all down with ale.

  “Do you usually drink such a strong beverage?” he asked as she wiped the foam from her lip.

  “I have sampled it, but it is not my first choice. Tonight it tastes like the nectar of the gods.”

  He didn’t want to laugh, for this was no journey of amusement. Yet, she kept surprising him, even her performance on the train, where she’d pretended he was her ardent suitor.

  She leaned back against the wall, her arm across her stomach. “I am sated at last,” she murmured, eyes closed with weariness.

  He arched a brow, thinking of far more wicked ways she could be “sated.”

  Being alone with her was giving him interesting ideas, he told himself. Perhaps it was because for the first time in almost ten years, he didn’t know what would happen next, had no plan for the coming moments, hours—night. There were so many ways they could amuse themselves.

  She suddenly shivered and hugged herself. “Julian—” She broke off, as if surprised to hear his Christian name from her lips.

  He’d never heard another woman call him such, except for family. It sounded intimate here in this room where they pretended to be husband and wife.

  She gave a rueful smile and started again, “Julian, when you take the tray down, will you fetch me another blanket? The coal grate is only meagerly filled.”

  He noticed the extra blanket on the end of the bed. And she did not? And why not leave the tray for the maid in the morning?

  Something made him agree and lift up the tray. She gave him a grateful smile, dazzling him. He held the tray one-handed while he stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. And then he stopped, his ear to the door.

  She seemed to be moving around, for her footsteps tapped regularly. Then he heard something squeak, and wood being dragged across the floor.

  He set the tray on the hall floor, then opened their door, only to find her standing on a stool, head and shoulders out the window.

  Chapter 8

  When she felt big hands around her waist, Rebecca gasped and tried to kick, but Julian eluded her blows, hauling her back inside. To her mortification, she slid down his body, her backside to his front. She fought his restraining hands and he let her go. Over her head, he slammed the shutters closed, even as she stumbled away from him and caught herself on the bedpost.

  “What was the meaning of that?” he demanded.

  She faced him, hands on her hips. “Why ever would I trust you? I told you I was leaving London, and suddenly men are following me—including you!”

  “According to you, the thief was in your carriage at Lady Thurlow’s. I didn’t even know you were leaving before that.”

  “But you have an unscrupulous wager about me. And you saw the diamond in the painting.”

  “And around your neck at a ball, before I saw the painting,” he added grimly.

  She narrowed her eyes. “The thief said that his master saw the jewel in both places, too.”

  “Many men could have seen the same thing. You cannot be accusing me of hiring a man to terrorize you.”

  He seemed outraged as he drew himself up, but that only reminded Rebecca how very large he was, how he seemed to dwarf the tiny room—the tiny bed. With his clothing dirty, his hair windblown, whiskers darkening his face, he seemed far too dangerous, not like a civilized earl.

  “Why shouldn’t I accuse you?” she demanded. “I left the thief in my carriage, and he turns up at the railway station at the same time as you!”

  “We were both following you—separately.”

  “And why should I believe you?” she demanded, feeling frustrated. “How am I supposed to know the truth?”

  He took a deep breath, as if he were trying to control his temper. She had seen no evidence of an unruly one—but she didn’t know him at all.

  “I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

  That could mean many things, but she refrained from pointing that out. “Please do.”

  She thought he would pace the room to work off his anger, but he remained utterly still as he spoke.

  “The name of the diamond is the Scandalous Lady.”

  Whatever she’d thought he would say to excuse himself, it wasn’t that. “You know the name?”

  “It was my father’s. It had been missing for almost ten years—and then I saw you wearing it at the ball.”

  She sank down slowly on the bed. “Your father’s?” She couldn’t even make a connection between the painting, Roger Eastfield the artist, and the last earl of Parkhurst.

  Julian nodded. “It was a gift to my father from an Indian maharajah who was visiting London. My father served as his official escort on behalf of the king.”

  “When I wore it, I thought it was paste,” she said lamely.

  “My father was honored to accept it, but when the maharajah died, his heirs tried to say that my father had coerced an ol
d man out of a precious heirloom.”

  She held her breath in surprise. Julian looked toward the hearth, his heavy brows lowered, his gray eyes focused far away. She sensed…something within him, an old pain he kept buried. It was close to the surface now; he yet struggled with it. He was a proud man, and she imagined his father had been the same.

  “That must have been terrible for the earl,” she said softly. “What happened?”

  “My father disagreed, and he kept the jewel. Society being as it was, the gossip was brief and then gone, especially since it dealt with Indians,” he added sardonically. “But my father was humiliated.”

  “Of course he was,” she murmured.

  “Just before my eighteenth birthday, the Scandalous Lady was stolen. And then my father died.”

  She didn’t try to hide her sympathy now, but he wasn’t looking at her. She knew she was lucky that her parents were still alive, and thankfully, more in love with each other now than for most of their marriage.

  “I inherited money from my mother’s side of the family,” Julian continued, “enough to save our property and to begin again.”

  She wanted to ask what had happened to their wealth, but sensed it wasn’t a good time. He was speaking so impassively, as if reciting history written in a book, instead of the personal, painful things that had happened to him and his family.

  His eyes narrowed as he considered the past. “But the rumors of the Scandalous lady wouldn’t die. People said it had not been stolen, that either I or my father had sold it, and used the proceeds to resurrect our fortunes.”

  “I imagine that as a young man, you didn’t appreciate people ignoring the hard work you were doing.”

  He frowned at her, but only in consideration. “I didn’t care what they thought of my work. I simply wanted them to believe the truth.”

  “You know by now that people believe what they want, Julian. We can’t change that. We can only accept it and move forward.” She’d learned that lesson over and over since childhood.