The Wild Lord (London Scandals Book 1)

by Carrie Lomax

  “She has found a soul as gentle as her own,” Harper mused.

  Dalton sat forward and peered at her, as if startled by her observation. She gave him her best calculating grin. It felt wonderful to fall into the habits of reading people and assessing their motives again—skills she had neglected since leaving the asylum. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to her that there might be other uses for her training.

  “Do you think I hate her because she is betrothed to the man I love?” Harper asked. “Well, I don’t. Anyone can see that Mary was afraid of Edward. He will overwhelm her. Even if I did hate Mary, I have a better chance of persuading her to refuse the match if I understand her motives than if I waste emotion on disliking her.”

  Dalton was quiet for a moment before saying, “You are cunning.”

  “My sister has an unusual knack for figuring out people’s intentions and personalities from across a room.” Viola spoke sternly. Harper glanced at her. Viola’s cheeks were flushed pink, visible even in the moonlight streaming in through the window. Oh. So that was the lay of the land. Viola was flattered by this intrusive aristocrat’s attentions. Well, let her be. Viola had said that she intended to enjoy London and all that came with it, for as long as she could. Surely Lord Dalton was part of the package.

  “Who is this poet‐artist Mary loves so well?” Harper asked, returning to the issue at hand.

  Dalton grimaced. “I’m not sure I should tell you. What will you do with the information?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m still trying to understand the battlefield,” Harper said pointedly. “Once I know my opponents, I shall consider how to turn them into allies.”

  “His name is Rupert Alwin. He is the fourth son of a cousin to the duke of Slade. He is not born to wealth, has no hope of inheriting money, scant hope of marrying into it, and little prospect of earning any kind of living through his writing. He produces the kind of dreck that young girls like Mary find peculiarly enthralling.”

  Harper tapped her chin with one gloved finger. “Her father does not approve, clearly.”

  “Hardly,” Dalton chuckled. “Mary Whitney is the eldest daughter of a wealthy earl. She comes quite well dowered. Mary likes fancy gowns and seasons in London and nice carriages. She will be an expensive wife to keep.”

  “But does she care more for Rupert than she does for gowns?” mused Harper. “That is the question we must answer.”

  Sometime later they arrived at the baroness’s townhouse. Dalton was solicitous of them as the sisters exited the carriage.

  “How do you know we can trust him?” Viola asked in a low voice as they mounted the stairs to their bedrooms.

  “I don’t,” replied Harper. “But he likes you, Viola.”

  Her sister was silent. “He also likes Richard. Remember who Dalton was standing with when we arrived.”

  “You are not bound to Samuel for the rest of your life,” Harper said gently. “Tomorrow there will be an official announcement of Edward and Mary’s wedding. We will need Gran’s help to stop this from happening.”

  “Do you think she’ll do it? She’s already done so much.”

  “I think she’ll do anything to get us out of her house.” Harper laughed.

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “On Edward? Never,” Harper replied fiercely.

  Chapter 21

  As Harper had predicted, the wedding announcement appeared in the next morning’s newspapers. Over breakfast, Gran choked delicately on a sausage and sipped her tea. Gran folded the paper and slid it over to Harper.

  “You have competition for Lord Edward’s heart.”

  She waited, impatiently, for Harper to scan the article.

  “I presented you the opportunity to see your heart’s desire again. This was not the outcome I anticipated. How is it he came away engaged to another woman, and what do you intend to do about it?”

  “I am aware of the announcement. It was why we came home early yesterday evening,” Harper replied calmly, picking up the paper. Her heartbeat picked up speed as she scanned the short article. “One week. We have six days to prevent this travesty from happening.”

  “So, you won’t simply let him go. I had feared as much.”

  “Hoped as much, too, I expect,” Harper replied evenly.

  “Viola, I do hope you are taking pointers from your younger sister. You must fight for what you want in life. No one will hand it to you.”

  “I have yet to find anyone worth fighting for.” Viola smiled. “Other than my sister and my son, of course.”

  Gran smirked.

  “Try looking harder. Your family is not inexpensive to support. If Lord Briarcliff disowns his son, don’t expect me to continue feeding and housing the lot of you.”

  Harper cleared her throat. “Ahem. Back to the problem of thwarting Edward’s wedding. I have a plan, but I need some help. Gran, can you find out which modiste is making Mary Whitney’s wedding gown?”

  “Without difficulty. Everyone will be talking about it. There are not many houses that can produce a sufficiently fine wedding gown on such short notice. That narrows the field considerably.”

  “Wonderful. The more challenging task will be finding a way for me to meet with Edward without Lord Briarcliff or Richard finding out. The great risk here will be if he devises his own scheme and we trip over one another. We must coordinate in advance for my idea to work. In the meantime, Viola, do you care for a morning ride? Perhaps Matthew would like to come along.”

  “Doubtless he will be ecstatic. Where are we going?”

  Harper glanced at the wedding announcement again. “To Pennington Cathedral.”

  * * *

  “He cannot marry Lady Whitney,” seethed Richard. “I’ll marry her myself before I let my savage of a brother ruin a lady of good reputation.”

  “Damned shame,” Richard’s companion concurred, lifting a glass of cognac in sympathy. It was early for drinking yet, but Richard had already been at it for hours. In fact, it was debatable whether he had ever sobered up from the night before. Once Harper Forsythe had appeared at the ball, Richard had immediately thought to use her appearance to his advantage. He had rushed to his father’s side and told him of the interloper’s presence. What had the earl done in response?

  His cursed father had taken the stage and announced a betrothal to a woman Edward had never met. Fairwyck had been flabbergasted, but he’d recovered well enough to stumble through a glowing—if halting—acceptance even as his daughter turned even whiter than her usual pale shade. Mary had actually fainted coming down from the orchestra stage.

  “It’s worse than a shame. Anyone can see the girl is terrified of him. Any sensible girl would naturally be frightened of a creature like Edward,” Richard spat. His lip throbbed. He ran his tongue over the split in the middle, tasting bitterness. Infected. More alcohol would help. He took another swig and reached for the bottle to refill his glass.

  “Hitting the bottle hard enough, aren’t you?” commented Nicholas Fowler.

  Nicholas, his sometime drinking companion, had gotten thick about the middle thanks to too much drink and too little exercise, and he thought to comment on Richard’s consumption?

  “I’ll have had enough when I finally come up with a plan to stop the wedding,” Richard sneered.

  “Have you considered working with her...what’s-her-name. The little nurse who set her cap for your brother.”

  “Forsythe. Harper Forsythe. Why should I help her?”

  “Seems you have a similar interest in the outcome. She wants to marry Edward. Edward only cares about Briarcliff because you want it so much. Offer your brother a payment in exchange for saying ‘I don’t’ at the altar. He and his nursemaid go and do whatever they want as long as they never come back to England. Simple, really.”

  “She is a scheming, money‐grabbing fortune hunter who only cares about the title.” Richard’s visceral opposition to working with Harper Forsythe, even if it might help him, was impo
ssible to overcome. He was too entrenched in name-calling and undermining her every desire to even consider Fowler’s idea.

  “Who is? Mary?” his friend asked.

  “No. The Forsythe girl.”

  “Put it to the test, then. If it’s true, you will reveal the truth about Miss Forsythe to Edward. He will abandon her at the mere suggestion that she’s after his fortune and not him. If they do marry, your father will have ample reason to have Edward confined. With no legitimate issue, eventually you would inherit.” Nicholas yawned. The tip of his nose was red, and his cheeks a shade to match.

  Richard was silent. The wounds on his face itched with healing, except for his lip, which remained sore.

  “How do you suggest I go about that?” he demanded.

  “Do I have to think of everything for you? You could help Edward run away with the Forsythe girl in exchange for abandoning his claim to Briarcliff.” Nicholas sipped his beer.

  Richard fought the haze of alcohol and anger clouding his mind. Fowler’s logic was sound. It was a rational approach to the problem, and it had a good chance of succeeding. Yet somewhere inside, a miniature version of himself stomped, wailed and threw a temper fit of epic proportions. Briarcliff was as good as mine for fifteen years.

  “Why couldn’t Edward just have stayed in the jungle? Or stayed dead, like he was supposed to?” he muttered aloud.

  “What do you mean, supposed to stay dead?” asked Fowler. “He was lost. No one ever said he was dead, for all the speculation.”

  “I was convinced of it. For a veritable lifetime.”

  “But staying dead implies he was supposed to be dead in the first place.” Fowler peered at Richard closely, though he said nothing further.

  Richard scowled. Who would have guessed that a knucklehead like Fowler would be so sharp, especially after half a barrel of beer and several snifters of cognac?

  * * *

  Mary stood on a small wooden box before a large gilt‐edged mirror, clad in costly blue satin. The satin resembled, in places, an actual gown. The bodice, for instance, squeezed her breasts painfully into four bulging lumps. The sleeves had not yet been set, so it was easy to see how her arms had poofed up until they resembled rising dough. For the moment, her arms were bare and covered in goose pimples that rose in protest against the slightest draft of air.

  She kept her arms protectively by her waist, which was nipped in so sharply that Mary felt cut nearly in half. One of the two seamstresses eyed Mary’s thickening waist disapprovingly.

  “Will she fit in a week, d’ye think?” she asked her colleague in a loud whisper, as though Mary was deaf. “Oughtn’t we ask Madame to let it out now, before we set the button holes? Hard to let out satin once it’s sewn.”

  The bodice was presently held in place with straight pins that discouraged any sagging of the spine.

  “She’ll just have to lace tighter,” mumbled the other girl, cruelly, around a mouthful of pins. Mary felt nauseous at the thought. Her fingers protectively brushed her growing stomach. There was hardly any hiding it any longer.

  In a few months, she would bear a child. Rupert’s child.

  A tear slid down her cheek, followed by another, and another. In the mirror, a blurred image of a dark‐haired girl stared back at her, plump red lips trembling in a white face. Her face. Rupert was a strong name. An artistic name, but a brave name. A name for a warrior. Why, then, didn’t he come for her? Why hadn’t he offered for her when he had learned of their child?

  A pin pricked her back.

  “Stand straight, please, or the hem won’t hang right,” growled the seamstress.

  Mary scrubbed the moisture from her cheeks and resolutely straightened. Six days hence she would marry the Beast of Briarcliff, who would like as not cook and eat her. While some considered this a just punishment for her indiscretion—notably her once-doting, now deploring father—Mary had no intention of sacrificing her beloved future child to a savage’s appetites. She would run away before she ever lay with a disgusting beast like Edward Northcote. If he was heir to the throne of England, Spain and France together, nothing would induce her to be his wife in any true sense.

  Nothing.

  The bell over the shop door jangled, interrupting Mary’s miserable thoughts. Outside the sheer curtained dressing room, Mary heard Madame Finch’s skirts swish purposefully toward the door.

  “I am sorry, we are closed for a private appointment. I can see you in half an hour.”

  “Oh, that’s quite fine. My granddaughter and I shall rest over here on this lovely settee. Would you bring tea while we peruse these fabric samples?” Mary heard the sweetness of the lady’s tone and was surprised to hear the dressmaker’s reply.

  “As I said, a private consultation is in session. My discretion is as prized as my designs. I am sure you understand.” Madame’s reply was firm, her tone icy.

  “Precisely,” the old lady said agreeably. “I can find another dressmaker to create my granddaughter’s trousseau and wedding gown, but I vastly prefer your... discretion. Which is why we shall sit here and your girl there will bring us tea while we wait. My old bones hardly survived the hike up those stairs once; I surely cannot climb them twice in one day. It would, therefore, be a unidirectional journey.”

  A long moment passed. Mary imagined two formidable women staring one another down and smiled fleetingly at the thought.

  The visitor won. A moment later the gauzy curtain twitched, and Madame’s gray‐streaked brown head appeared.

  “Begging the intrusion, my lady, would you object to an elderly woman reviewing the fabric sample book with her granddaughter for a few moments while we finish pinning the hem?”

  Mary saw no harm in it. She also spotted an opportunity for leverage. As a denizen of London’s upper society, Mary was well-trained in the art of maneuvering to get what she wanted—and what she wanted, right now, was release from the fabric prison of her wedding gown.

  “I have no objection, on the condition that you let out the waist of this gown another inch. I am nigh to suffocating.”

  Madame circled her, eyeing Mary’s waist with an expression of cool disdain toward the presence of a babe before the wedding. Yet Madame Finch was a woman of the world. It was hardly the first time she had been confronted with such a situation. She waved one hand at the shop girls.

  “Here, along this seam, it will not be noticeable. We will make the change, and we shall not inform her ladyship.”

  Meaning, Mary’s mother.

  Two white mob‐capped heads bobbed in unison. One disappeared, presumably to make tea for the old lady and her granddaughter, and the other returned to pinning Mary’s hem. Mary returned to brooding over Rupert’s apparent abandonment of her and the baby.

  Their baby. Tears leaked again, rolling down her cheeks in fat, salty drops. Outside, a tea tray rattled gently. Low voices hummed. Mary sighed. The seamstress bent at her feet rose and bobbed a curtsy.

  “Milady, I need more pins. I won’t be a moment.”

  Seconds later, a soft knock startled Mary.

  “Pardon the intrusion,” a young woman’s voice floated through the curtain. “You sounded unhappy. Are you all right?”

  They were the first kind words Mary could recall hearing since she had first told her mother about the baby. A hot, tight vise squeezed her chest. Mary forced her eyes shut to hold back the tears, but with a gasp, they broke free in a torrent of sobs.

  The curtain twitched and a young woman with dark blonde hair and warm hazel green eyes popped into the dressing room. Mary sputtered.

  “I don’t think we’ve been hin‐ hin‐ introduced,” she sobbed.

  “Oh, let’s not stand on ceremony at such a time.” The stranger smiled gently. “Perhaps I can help. You see, I believe that you are mistakenly engaged to my fiancé. Lord Edward Northcote.” She offered a handkerchief. Mary accepted it as if there was a serpent concealed in the limp folds.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, suddenly su
spicious.

  “My name is Harper Forsythe. My grandmother and I will be taking tea at Brown’s Hotel in Albemarle Street directly after this visit. If you join us, I believe we can find a way to make you happier. Much, much, happier.”

  Bold Miss Forsythe winked.

  “I asked you not to bother my client!” Madame Finch’s sharp tone made Mary wince. Miss Forsythe simply smiled and closed the curtain. Before she could say anything, Mary called out.

  “Madame Finch. Calm yourself. She kindly loaned me a handkerchief, nothing more.”

  The dressmaker entered the curtained room and gave her a hard look. Mary dabbed her red eyes and felt something crinkle inside the handkerchief.

  Paper. A note.

  After the seamstress had finished lacing her into her day dress and carefully rearranged Mary’s glossy black curls and fetching poke bonnet atop her head did Mary slip the note into her tiny reticule, inside the handkerchief. The bell over the door tinkled.

  “Right this way, Madame.” The curtains parted, and Mary stood on her box as an actress upon a stage, every nerve tense.

  “Hello, Mama.” Mary forced a smile. Her mother smiled back, rather more warmly than usual. Mary stepped down and accepted her wrap.

  “Were you successful at the florist’s?” Mary inquired, carefully gauging her mother’s mood.

  “Oh, yes. It was quite an experience. I wish you could have accompanied me but there is so much to accomplish before Saturday. Mr. Hicks went on and on about his hot‐water stove and the newest methods of hothouse design. I hardly followed the half of it, the place being so incredibly warm. I shall dress for summer instead of fall for my next visit.” Her mother shivered, her gray‐streaked black hair bouncing girlishly. Mary’s mother had an ideally plump figure with a trim waistline, which Mary had inherited. Lady Whitney had borne six children, five living, and she always wore artfully constructed gowns to minimize the waist that had grown with each babe’s arrival. Madame Finch was essential to maintaining the fiction of her youthful figure.