by Brenda Hiatt
Scandalous Virtue
Brenda Hiatt
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Copyright
For the Circle—Anne, Barbara,
Connie, Joy, Mel, Monique, and Russ—
with gratitude for your unwavering support.
You all know just how special you are!
Chapter One
LONDON—LATE SEPTEMBER, 1814
Rain beat upon expensively paned windows while in the flickering candlelight within, the boisterous clamor hovered in volume between battlefield and bordello. John Jefferson Ashecroft, equally at home in either setting, relished the wild abandon of this latest celebration of his recent, unexpected elevation to the lofty title of Marquis of Foxhaven.
Lord Peter Northrup, fourth son of the Duke of Marland and his oldest friend, clearly did not share his enthusiasm. “Three near-orgies in three nights is a bit much, don’t you think, Jack?” he whispered. “Thought you valued your grandfather’s memory. This would have him rolling in his grave!”
“Mausoleum, dear boy. Nothing so crude as earth for a Foxhaven resting place! But the old fellow’s gone now, so there’s no one to care what I do with my good fortune—or no one whose opinion matters.” Jack turned from the card table and his advisor.
“Here, Polly, lass! Bring me another pint and another kiss!” he called out to a passing maidservant.
Giggling, the girl complied, and Jack slid a hand up her skirts to sweeten his kiss. “Milor’ you are a handful!” Polly informed him, wrinkling her freckled nose and winking.
Jack chuckled. “Nay, you’re the handful, and a pretty one at that! What say you and I escape upstairs for half an hour? My guests will never miss me.” He swept a glance about the sumptuous drawing room and at the dicing, dallying throng there assembled. The marked absence of ladies—of Quality, at any rate—gave evidence that this particular gathering lacked Society’s blessing.
Then he caught Lord Peter’s eye. “What? Surely you don’t begrudge me a bit of revelry after the past few years of privation?”
Lord Peter snorted. “Privation? I don’t recall that a light purse ever kept you from revelry in the past. Now you simply have the means to speed yourself to perdition on greased wheels.”
“Ah, you have no idea how I suffered during the war,” Jack informed his friend with a melodramatic sigh. “Wine, women, and song were hard to come by. The sleep I lost in the search … ! Ask Harry over there. He has no fault to find with my present lifestyle.”
“No surprise there.” Lord Peter turned a judicious eye on Harry Thatcher, Jack’s second-oldest friend, who was enthusiastically tossing dice with his one remaining arm. The wars had left his other sleeve empty. “Harry always lived for the moment, even before his injury turned him bitter. Now he just wants company on his journey to hell.”
Jack shrugged. “And perhaps I’ll oblige him. He saved my life in Spain, after all.”
“And you his—twice,” Lord Peter reminded him. “I’d say the score’s more than even.”
“Polly, go ahead and take Ferny another bottle,” suggested Jack, nodding toward the gesturing Lord Fernworth across the noisy room. “Perhaps by the time you return, Peter will be done with his moralizing. You’re quite the spoilsport tonight, you know,” he informed his friend when the wench had gone. “I can’t think you accepted my invitation merely to cluck over my shortcomings like some brightly colored mother hen.”
Lord Peter smoothed his gold-and-scarlet waistcoat. “I suppose I am acting the prig tonight. Sorry, Jack. It’s just—”
A forceful throat-clearing at his elbow interrupted him. The thin, nondescript butler Jack had hired earlier that week announced, “A Mr. Havershaw, milord.” The throat-clearing guest, just as thin as the butler but much taller, hovered nearby, scowling.
He’d really have to see about a new butler, thought Jack resignedly. This Carp, or Crump, or whatever his name was, didn’t seem to have a grasp of the proper procedures at all.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Havershaw,” said Jack with forced cordiality while looking daggers at his oblivious butler. “I do apologize for not keeping our appointment last Wednesday. The press of business, you see—”
“Yes, I certainly do see, my lord.” Mr. Havershaw scoured the room with a sour glance. “I would not have presumed to come to you, but some of these papers are quite pressing. If I could have half an hour of your time in the library?”
Jack stared at the man in disbelief. “Now?” He knew that Havershaw had enjoyed an unusually privileged position as both his grandfather’s steward and lifelong friend, but this was absurd!
“If you’d be so kind, my lord. I’ll not keep you long from your … guests.”
Aware that Lord Peter, along with a growing number of the revelers, were regarding him with interest, Jack finally shrugged. “I may as well get it over, I suppose. Peter, see that no one’s glass goes empty, will you? My staff leaves a bit to be desired. All right, Havershaw, the library’s this way.”
Havershaw headed for the hallway. “I know, my lord.”
How did the man manage to make those two words sound like an insult? He was the marquis now, by God, however unprepared for the role he might be.
Once in the library, he turned to face his nemesis. “I trust you’ll make this quick, Mr. Havershaw. It’s most irregular for a host to abandon his guests in this manner.”
He’d meant to say something far more cutting, but various childhood memories of Havershaw had crowded back. With them came an ingrained respect he was amazed could still constrain him. Other than his grandfather and, more recently, the Duke of Wellington, Jack had never cared about pleasing anyone but himself.
Lord Geoffrey, his spendthrift, gamester father and Lord Foxhaven’s second son, had died when Jack was but eight. Two years later, his mother married Sir Findlay Branch, a wealthy, stuffy baronet whose apparent mission in life was to eradicate Lord Geoffrey’s influences from his son.
Jack had responded with rebellion, at first subtle, then open, and finally flagrant. Before he reached eleven he was shipped off to boarding school and forbidden to return until he reformed. As a result, he spent all holidays at Fox Manor, where old Lord Foxhaven had become the only stabilizing influence in his early life. There, Mr. Havershaw had been an imposing, authoritative presence, second only to his grandfather in the boy’s eyes.
“As I said, my lord, this should take but half an hour, perhaps less,” said that former object of awe. Opening the satchel he carried, he pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. “There will be much more for you to go over when you finally see your way clear to visit Fox Manor, of course, but these documents are the most pressing.”
Jack eyed the stack doubtfully. “I thought I’d signed all the necessary papers after Uncle Luther’s funeral.”
“Those to ensure your succession to the title and estates, yes. But Foxhaven encompasses a great many enterprises, some of which have been too long neglected due to your uncle’s ill health.”
Uncle Luther’s ill health. If Jack had known
when his grandfather died last spring that his uncle’s health was so poorly, he might have been more prepared for the responsibilities which had descended upon him three weeks since. But no one had seen fit to tell him.
Not that he’d ever inquired.
Jack had sold out of the army a scant six weeks after his grandfather’s death—as soon as the public’s enthusiasm for the war heroes began to wane, in fact—and left for Paris, where a warm welcome still awaited. He’d nearly exhausted both his funds and the goodwill of those willing to supplement them by the time he returned to England in late August. Though he wouldn’t have wished poor old Luther underground, his timing had been Jack’s financial salvation.
“Very well, let’s get it over with. I imagine I’ll feel even less like dealing with all of this in the morning.” He hadn’t drunk much yet, by his standards, but since his succession not a morning had come that hadn’t found him cripplingly hung over. There was no particular reason to believe tomorrow would be any different.
Havershaw managed a chilly smile. “Excellent, my lord. If you would turn your attention to this? It deals with certain investments in Portugal …”
Forty minutes later, Jack was heartily regretting his compliance. Not that the various business matters put before him were particularly incomprehensible, or even quite as boring as he’d expected. But being dumped headfirst into Foxhaven business made him far too cognizant of the responsibilities now facing him—responsibilities he had neither the ability nor inclination to take on. Why, the very thought of Jack Ashecroft, family outcast, attempting to play the respectable nobleman was thoroughly laughable. Not that he was laughing at the moment.
He yawned.
Mr. Havershaw regarded him through narrowed eyes. “I believe that will do for this evening, my lord. There is one last thing, however, that you may wish to have now.” He pulled a sealed envelope from the satchel. “A personal letter from your grandfather, to be delivered to you in the event of your uncle’s death without issue.”
Jack took the envelope gingerly, turning it over in his fingers several times before breaking the seal—the seal that was now his. Odd feeling, that.
The letter was but a single sheet, its brief contents scrawled in his grandfather’s strong but careless hand.
My dear Jack,
If you are reading this, you have succeeded to my title and, knowing your attention to family matters, most likely unexpectedly. Rest assured that to me this event was neither unexpected, nor at all undesirable. Luther, while an estimable man, has the strength of neither character nor constitution to effectively carry Foxhaven into the future. You have. In fact, you have it in you to become the finest lord Foxhaven has known in six generations—if you can find it in you to put aside your ongoing pursuit of pleasure to tap into that inner strength I have long observed and, at whiles, attempted to nurture. It is up to you, Jack, to bring Foxhaven into its own by coming into your own. Consider it my dying request.
Ever your faithful and loving grandfather,
Julius Ashecroft, Marquis of Foxhaven
Jack sat back in his chair and read it through again, hearing his grandfather’s dry, sardonically affectionate voice as he did so. He’d known Jack couldn’t refuse this call to action, a call from beyond the grave from the only person he’d ever truly cared for—or who had cared for him.
Clenching the letter in one fist, Jack felt his spine stiffen with resolve. He gave a single nod. “I’ll do it,” he said aloud. John Jefferson Ashecroft, black sheep of the family, was going to become respectable.
“Very good, my lord,” said Havershaw, just as though he knew what Jack was talking about. “He also penned an addendum.” He held out a folded slip of paper.
Frowning, Jack took and opened it. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” it read, “as your own father proved repeatedly. To assist you in your effort to reform, I have made certain financial arrangements to act as an incentive. Havershaw will acquaint you with the terms. —F.”
“Terms?” Jack looked up suspiciously.
Havershaw pushed a packet of papers across to him. “The specifics are spelled out there. In brief, all monies not attached to the estates are to be held in trust until such time as the trustee determines that you have made the required transformation of character.”
“The devil they are!” Jack exploded. “What utter nonsense! And just who is this trustee who will pass judgment upon me?”
“I am,” replied Havershaw with a thin smile.
Nessa quietly closed the kitchen door and pulled her cloak and hood tightly about her face. Glancing up at the still-lighted windows of the narrow but imposing townhouse, she hoped her sister would not feel so concerned about her fictitious headache as to come to her room to check on her. If all went as planned, she’d be back inside of two hours. With luck, Prudence would never know she’d been away. Hurrying around the corner to the street, she hailed a passing hackney.
For the hundredth time she told herself she was mad to be doing this, and for the hundredth time she hushed her conscience. “King Street, St. James,” she told the driver, climbing into the conveyance.
This evening was a present to herself. From the moment she’d first seen the notice in the papers about this masquerade ball, she’d been determined to attend. In London for the first real visit in her life, Nessa felt she deserved some enjoyment.
As the hackney lurched forward, she took the golden feathered mask she’d bought earlier that day from the pocket of her cloak and fastened it over her eyes. No one would ever know, and she’d have a delicious memory to look back on—the first such memory in her whole sheltered lifetime. It was only fair she have this reward for leading such a virtuous existence, she reasoned.
The one thing that did cause Nessa a pang of guilt was the fact that her year of mourning still lacked nearly three weeks till completion. Not for a moment did she believe her husband would have understood, sharing, as he had, her late father’s puritanical outlook on life. But she’d spent all of her four and twenty years conforming to the strictures of first the one and then the other. Now, for the first time in her life, she was free of them both—and ready to enjoy that freedom.
“This be King Street, miss,” the hackney driver called back to her just then.
“Thank you,” she called back. “Take me to the Upper Assembly Rooms, please. And if you could return in one hour, I’d be most grateful.”
The driver assented and pulled the carriage to a halt a moment later. Nessa paid him generously, hoping thereby to ensure his return. Then, lifting her chin, she strode regally up the stairs to those same hallowed rooms that housed Almack’s during the Season. Handing her cloak to one waiting lackey and her ticket to another, she swept into the ballroom.
A mere step inside the room she paused, surveying with bewildered delight this, her first masquerade. Gaily costumed revelers moved and shimmered in the candlelight of the chandeliers, dancing to the strains of a country tune or gathering in small groups to converse. Multihued dominoes vied with replicas of every historic personage imaginable.
Nessa glanced down at her own low-cut gown, smiling to think she had feared her costume too risqué. What pains she had taken to alter the gown in secret, hiding it from her sister and sharp-eyed abigail. Removing the ruffles from the neckline had transformed it into an effective cyprian’s costume. Prudence would doubtless have a spasm if she found it hidden in the back of Nessa’s wardrobe, but it was nothing compared to the plumage she saw here displayed.
“Eh there, me beauty! Might ye care to dance?” inquired a poor imitation of Henry VIII at her elbow.
Abruptly, she remembered her sister’s objections when Nessa had first mentioned this masquerade to her, about cits and other vulgar sorts attending. In her excitement and determination to attend she’d shrugged it off, but now the evidence was before her.
“Ah, not just yet, thank you,” she replied nervously, taking a step away from the man, who reeked of spirits. S
omehow, she hadn’t really thought about what she’d do at the masquerade. She’d focused all her energies on simply getting here.
The man stepped closer. “ ’Ere now, you’re not refusing to dance with yer monarch, are ye?” he prodded with a leer. “Royal privilege and all that.”
Nessa swallowed. “No, it’s not that. It’s only—”
“She has a prior obligation, to confess her sins,” interrupted a tall, brown-robed monk. “Even Your Majesty must admit to the superior claims of the Church in such matters.” The monk’s accent was cultured, reassuring Nessa that this, at least, was a man of her own class.
The drunkard appeared disposed to argue, but a tilt of the monk’s head and an ominous glitter of brilliant blue eyes from behind his mask dissuaded him. Muttering something about more wine, King Henry moved away.
“Thank you, sir,” said Nessa, relieved. “He really was becoming most persistent.”
“One can hardly blame him.” The monk looked her over with a most unclerical gleam in his eye. “What do you here alone? Or is your protector busy procuring you a glass of iced champagne?”
“My—?” Nessa glanced down at her costume again and flushed. Perhaps it was a trifle too realistic. “No, I assure you I am here alone—but I do not intend to stay long. No more than an hour.”
The monk smiled, and Nessa realized how very handsome he was, even with a mask obscuring much of his face. “Then pray, allow me to act as your escort for the brief time you mean to grace this gathering with your presence.”
Nessa frowned, wondering if perhaps she had tumbled from the frying pan into the fire. “I, ah—”
“Surely you cannot feel less than safe with a man of the cloth?” he prompted. “Besides, our costumes complement each other so well.”
That forced a chuckle from Nessa, making her instantly more comfortable. Surely a man with a sense of humor could not be too evil. Though why she should think that, she did not know. Neither her father nor her husband had ever shown the slightest hint of whimsy, and both had been regarded by the world as the most upright and estimable of men.